


When the Smoke Clears

by 14hpgirl19



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual John Watson, Coming Out, Complicated Emotions, Emotional Talks, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Healing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injured John, Love Conquers All, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parentlock, Pining, Self-Hatred, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9528248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14hpgirl19/pseuds/14hpgirl19
Summary: “As I think I have explained to you many times before, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people-”“Would complete you,” John said, “as a human being.”After all these years, John Watson was fairly certain he'd worked out all there was to know about Sherlock Holmes. Only he hadn't, and the new revelations leave him reeling. It's a long road to true happiness, filled with past resentments and gunshots, but if they try hard enough, the two of them just might make it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this with the intention of just rewriting this scene, but then I got caught up in the idea of a longer story, so it got away from me. I don't know how long it will be, I don't even fully know what is going to happen, but I have enough to get started, and I couldn't resist putting this up. The tags will be changing as more people and stuff gets added. 
> 
> This is un-betaed and un-Britpicked, so I apologize for any mistakes. If there are any glaring ones, feel free to let me know. 
> 
> I have no idea when I will be updating next, as school can get hectic, but I'm really excited about this, so hopefully it'll be by the end of the week. I make no promises though. 
> 
> That's all, folks. Hope you enjoy!

Sherlock was staring at him as though he was an idiot, and John wanted to scream.

It was too much. It was all too much. John could feel the tight ball in his chest tensing even more, to the point of it being painful. With each word he said, he could feel himself inching closer and closer to an explosion.

“She’s _out_ there, she _likes_ you, and she’s _alive._ ” He was shaking. When did he start shaking? “Do you have the first idea how lucky you are?”

He wasn’t even upset to learn that Sherlock had deceived him into thinking Irene – the Woman – was dead. At this point, it was just another disappointment, another tiny, piercing lie to add to the pile of other piercing lies that had accumulated over the years. Lies told by Sherlock, by Mary. By John himself.

But he _was_ upset that Sherlock was wasting the very opportunity John so desperately wanted. Although upset didn’t seem like the right word. Angry. Angry was good.

Furious was better.

“Just text her back,” he said.

“Why?”

John gritted his teeth together. His fingers itched at his side. Somewhere, deep down, he felt sick.

“Because High Wycombe is better than you are currently equipped to understand.”

Sherlock looked down at his mug. His lower lip jutted out just a little. “I once caught a triple poisoner in High Wycombe.”

John’s fingers curled into fists as he willed himself not to release every ounce of rage bundled up inside him. The need to make Sherlock understand was overwhelming. John could feel it welling up, threatening to swallow him whole. It was terrifying. It was what happened to him in the morgue, when he unleashed his emotions and struck Sherlock repeatedly. He’d hurt someone who – admittedly – did not deserve it. Someone who was – for a time – his best friend and maybe something more. Even now he regretted it. The healing cut on Sherlock’s face was a sharp reminder of what he was capable of when he lost control. It sickened him. The self-loathing had always been there, but he was certain it had reached its peak at that moment.

“That’s only the beginning, mate,” he said, relieved at how calm it came out.

Sherlock sighed, looking almost annoyed at the conversation they were having. “As I think I have explained to you _many_ times before, romantic entanglement, while fulfilling for other people-”

“Would complete you,” John said, “as a human being.”

Sherlock looked up at him, and John saw something unfamiliar in his eyes. His long fingers tightened around his mug.

“I have no desire,” said Sherlock slowly, “to be in a romantic relationship with Irene Adler. Leave it alone.”

“Why?” In all the years of them knowing each other, John believed he could count all the arguments he’d won on one hand. It was petty of him, but he was determined to win this one. There was a burning sensation in his gut that needed to be put out. “I saw the two of you together, I saw your connection.”

_More than I’d needed to see._

“What connection?” spat Sherlock. “We played a game. A game I won because her ridiculous feelings got in the way.”

“Feelings she had – has – for _you_! For God’s sake, she entrusted you with her metaphorical heart!”

Sherlock set his mug down on the tiny table beside his chair and stood up. He swayed a bit as he did, his hand reaching out to steady himself on the armrest. John’s heart clenched at the sight.

“For the last time,” Sherlock said, “I do not have _feelings_ for Irene Adler. She is the last person I would ever be interested in.”

John laughed humorlessly. “Are you serious? She’s got a brilliant mind, she’s gorgeous, she loves playing games. She’s perfect for you.”

“She’s also a woman.”

He was so caught up in the idea of winning that he missed the implication. “The Woman, as you always put it.”

Sherlock stared at him. He seemed both defiant and nervous, an odd mixture that seemed wrong on his face. His words finally sunk in for John, and he felt his jaw slacken.

“Wait… You mean you’re…”

Sherlock looked away. He snatched up his mug and strode into the kitchen, leaving John to stare at his back.

“I told you girlfriends weren’t my area,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet as he placed his mug in the sink. John forgot to be proud of him for it. “On that first night.”

He knew exactly what Sherlock was referring to. He’d replayed that moment in his head countless times.

“I thought you just meant you didn’t like relationships. Or that you weren’t good at them.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked into a small, self-deprecating smile. “That’s still true. But so is the fact that I’m gay.”

Hearing him actually say it out loud was like a jolt of electricity. John felt like an idiot – and a terrible friend – for not realizing it. His previous anger and determination to make Sherlock see reason had dissipated the moment he caught up with the conversation, and now he was just desperate to fit together all the puzzle pieces that made up Sherlock Holmes.

“Why did you never tell me?”

Sherlock shrugged. There was something looser about him now, something resigned. “I thought you knew. And even if you didn’t, it was never relevant.”

“How could I have known? I mean, aside from that first night, the only things I had to go off of for you and romance were Irene and Janine.”

Sherlock made a face. “Janine wasn’t a real relationship.”

“Still.”

Sherlock scratched the cut on his brow, and John’s stomach gave a little lurch. “What does it matter? So I’m attracted to men. That doesn’t change the fact that romantic relationships are unappealing to me.”

There was something in his voice that made John pause. A terse note, a slight unevenness.

“It also doesn’t change the fact that loving someone – _being_ with someone – would do wonders for you.”

“You make it sound as though I’m broken. Like I need to be fixed.”

John recoiled. He’d always made it a point to make sure Sherlock knew he wasn’t defective in any way. But now that he pointed it out, it was clear to John that he’d ruined that.

“I’m just saying,” he said, his words lame even to himself.

“I think you’ve said enough.”

John looked at him. Sherlock wasn’t looking back, but at the kitchen table, which looked startlingly empty without its usual clutter. Mycroft’s people had disposed of everything harmful in the flat, something John was begrudgingly and immensely grateful for.

“Look, Sherlock,” he said. “You know you’re not broken-”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” Sherlock said. “Yes, I know there’s nothing wrong with me, I know romance would change my life, blah blah blah. Thanks for coming, thanks for the birthday wishes, how very kind of you, do say hello to Rosie for me.” At the end of this, he walked over to the door and gestured out it. John could feel his anger pricking up again.

He couldn’t tell if it was anger toward Sherlock or himself.

“I just have one more question,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. He stood still in the middle of the sitting room, feeling surprisingly calm at the center of his roiling emotions. The eye of the storm.

“What?”

He didn’t know what possessed him to ask, but the need to ask it was very much there. It was probably what fueled him to start the conversation about The Woman. It was _definitely_ what fueled him to start the conversation. He had always been desperate to know.

“Has there ever been anyone you’ve loved?”

Sherlock’s face remained blank, but John saw something in his eyes. A hint of surprise, a bit of fear. John stood his ground, watching Sherlock.

“I suppose I love my parents,” said Sherlock, flatly. “And I might say I love my brother, but only if under extreme duress and possible threat of life. There’s also Mrs. Hudson, and-”

“Shut up,” interrupted John. “Just shut up. I’m so tired of playing this game with you. I just want a straight answer. Yes or no. It’s not hard.”

Sherlock’s shoulders drooped. John waited.

“Yes.” It was no more than a whisper. “Yes. There’s – someone.”

“A man.”

“Of course a man.”

John stepped closer. “Is he still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still see him?”

“Yes.”

John almost laughed. “Then it’s simple, isn’t it?”

Sherlock glared at him. “No, it’s not.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock apparently gave up on trying to make him leave, because he turned away from the door and stalked further into the sitting room. John didn’t move from his spot. There was an odd feeling spreading throughout his body, and he wasn’t sure what it meant.

“He’s straight and often relishes the opportunity to say so.”

“But have you ever-”

“ _Yes_ , John!” The suddenness of his shout startled John. He was shaking again and John didn’t like it. “I am absolutely certain he has no interest in men because he married a woman, he’s only dated women, and every time people insinuate he and I are a couple, he insists he is completely straight.”

John stepped back. Let out a breath and took in a new one. Opened and closed his mouth. Sherlock watched him with keen eyes.

“Figured it out, have you?” asked Sherlock, his voice low. “Are you quite pleased with yourself? I should hope you are. As you know, your happiness is very important to me.”

John felt as though he had been punched. Sherlock seemed unfamiliar to him, and he couldn’t tell if it was because of the new information flooding his brain or Sherlock’s gaunt appearance that still made him want to cry every time he saw him.

He knew, of course he knew, but he had to confirm it. “Me?”

Sherlock’s silence said it all.

“I don’t – I never meant to – I didn’t know.”

With a shake of his head, Sherlock walked past him and into the kitchen. “Molly will be here in three and a half minutes. I promise I will behave myself until she gets here.” John could hear Sherlock’s footsteps retreat down the hallway until they were swallowed up by his bedroom door shutting.

And then he was alone.


	2. Chapter 2

When Lestrade showed up the next day, Sherlock only felt numb.

He supposed he should have expected it. Since Mary’s death, his and John’s relationship had been carefully restrained at best, and that was only recently. Sherlock still bore the bruises and cuts John’s fists had bestowed upon him. They had only just been on the verge of some kind of reparation before Sherlock’s deepest, darkest secret was flung out into the open.

It was almost a relief to have it be revealed. To say the words “I’m gay” after all these years. To finally be himself in front of the person who mattered most. To see the look on John’s face when he _finally_ understood the depth of Sherlock’s feelings.

Actually, no. Seeing the look on John’s face hadn’t been a relief. It had been a mixture of resignation and heartbreak. But heartbreak wasn’t a new concept to him anyway.

The minute he’d shut his bedroom door behind him, Sherlock regretted it. What would have happened if he had stayed? What would John have said? What would he have done? Sherlock had a desperate desire to know, but he couldn’t just walk back out. That would make him look even more pathetic than he already felt. Instead, he laid down on his bed, turned on his side, and stared at the door. He strained his ears for possible sounds of footsteps coming down the hall, but he only caught a door closing. Molly turned up two minutes later, and he pretended to be asleep.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ he thought when Lestrade arrived at John’s designated time. He dropped his eyes back down to the book he had open in his lap, though he didn’t read a single word.

“Hey,” said Lestrade, awkwardly looking around the flat. “Hope it’s okay, but John asked me to take his shift. Said he needed to be with Rosie today.”

 _Of course it’s not okay,_ Sherlock thought. _I’ve gone and ruined everything good in my life. Again._

“Yes, of course,” is all he said, not looking up from his book. “Rosamund must always come first.”

He was sitting in his chair, and for Lestrade, the logical place to sit would be the armchair across from Sherlock. John’s armchair. Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the book, but he could still sense Lestrade’s hesitation. In the end, the DI sat at the table off to Sherlock’s left.

For a few minutes, the only sound in the room was their breathing and the fluttering of the pages as Sherlock flipped them. He wasn’t reading at this point, but keeping up with appearances was easier than dealing with questions.

“It’s clean in here,” Lestrade said after a while. “I’ve never seen it this clean.”

Sherlock had a hard time resisting rolling his eyes. He detested small talk. “Courtesy of my brother. I’m not to be trusted with… with anything, really.”

“Can you blame him?” Sherlock gritted his teeth together. “You went on quite the bender.”

Sherlock slammed his book shut and stood up. The book was tossed onto John’s distressingly empty chair as he stalked into the kitchen. He reached for the kettle to prepare tea, but stopped when he saw how badly his hand was shaking.

“I had a good reason,” he said, staring at his hand. He heard Lestrade come closer, and he wordlessly stepped out of the way when Lestrade picked up the kettle and filled it.

“Yeah,” said Lestrade. “To save John. I know.”

Sherlock looked at him. “How do you know that?”

Lestrade put the kettle on the stovetop and leaned against the table, arms crossed. His expression was casual and nonjudgmental. Sherlock wished his hands would stop shaking.

“Because I’m not an idiot,” Lestrade said. “Contrary to what you may think.” He paused. “And Mrs. Hudson told me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “That woman needs to learn when to keep her mouth shut.”

That earned him a glare from Lestrade. “ _That woman_ cares about you. She’s concerned.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, but it was halfhearted at best. He slumped into a chair at the kitchen table and watched as Lestrade made the tea. He would get it wrong, Sherlock already knew. Only one person had ever bothered to figure out just how Sherlock liked his tea, and he’d given up his chance to be standing in Lestrade’s position today. Because Sherlock had revealed that he loved him. And he probably hated Sherlock right now.

Lestrade set the tea down in front of Sherlock before taking a seat beside him. Sherlock watched the steam from it rise and curl before dissipating into the air. He wished he could do the same.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot,” he said quietly.

Lestrade didn’t respond, just took a sip from his own cup. Sherlock knew him well enough to know his words were well-received.

“You better drink that,” Lestrade said. “John instructed me to make sure you eat and drink something.”

The scoff that escaped Sherlock wasn’t supposed to happen, but he couldn’t help it. He was tempted to ignore the tea just to spite John, but still found himself reaching for the cup a second later.

“He’d be here if he could,” Lestrade said, clearly trying to be helpful. Sherlock gripped his teacup harder. “You know he would.”

The words were out before he could stop them. “No, he wouldn’t.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows furrowed, and he put his cup down. Sherlock could see the stirrings of a question in his eyes. His first instinct was to avoid it, but he was so tired that he just let it come.

“What makes you say that?”

“Pure, unequivocal fact,” Sherlock replied. Much like with Faith (no, not Faith, he’d hallucinated her, _idiot_ ), he couldn’t prevent the flood of words bubbling up in him. “The first time he saw me after Mary’s funeral was when Mrs. Hudson threw me in the _boot_ of her car and forced him to look at me. He only stuck around after that because there was the chance we were going to incarcerate an incredibly dangerous man, not because he missed me. Furthermore, yesterday, when he was here for his _shift,_ he was prepared to leave early because he couldn’t spend another _second_ with me. Right before he left, I divulged some very private information, and in return he left without talking to me about it and asked you to come today in his stead because he cannot bear to face me.” He hated that his voice cracked ever so slightly on the last few words, and he knew Lestrade caught it too from the way his lips parted.

“Also,” Sherlock plowed on, making his voice gruff once again. “I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice, but two days ago, he did _this_ to me.” He gestured to the cut above his brow. Lestrade swallowed as his eyes traveled over the injury.

“Look,” said Lestrade. “John cares about you a lot. He’s just going through some stuff, and-”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘and you should be sympathetic,’ I’ll kick you out.”

The hurt look that crossed Lestrade’s face almost made Sherlock feel bad. As much as he pretended he didn’t, he really did care about Lestrade. Without him, Sherlock truly believed he would’ve taken some terribly drastic actions to end his boredom. Lestrade helped him get clean, and he gave Sherlock cases to occupy his always-racing mind. Loathe as he was to admit it, Sherlock owed Lestrade an awful lot.

“I was going to say,” Lestrade said, “that while his grief does not excuse his actions in any way, he’s not in the right state of mind right now. The John that blamed you for Mary’s death, the John that did _that_ to you isn’t the John Watson I know.”

 _Then where is that John Watson?_ Sherlock wondered. _Will he ever come back?_

“I don’t know what to do,” Sherlock whispered. Lestrade shifted in his chair, his body language conveying his willingness to listen. Sherlock looked down at his tea, no longer steaming. “I’ve tried to wait for him to let me back in, I’ve followed Mary’s advice, I’ve let him blame me for whatever he wants to blame me for…” There was a lump growing in his throat, one that seemed to always be on the verge of choking him these days. “I don’t know what else to do. I went to a therapist, for God’s sake. John is a puzzle I can’t solve.”

Lestrade tapped his finger against his cup. “What was it you told him yesterday?”

“Hm?”

“The very private information. What was it?” His voice was undemanding. It was like he was asking about the weather.

“That’s none of your bloody business.”

Lestrade didn’t seem surprised or put-off by this response at all. “Probably not. I just thought I’d understand the situation better if I knew. But you don’t have to tell me.”

For several minutes, silence stretched between them. After years of keeping it in, to be faced with revealing his secret two days in a row made Sherlock uneasy. It was a part of himself he kept close, pressed up inside his chest like a second heart. Giving it away so easily felt wrong.

But he was tired. So very tired.

Sherlock didn’t touch his cold tea, and Lestrade made him another cup. The little gesture touched Sherlock and prompted him open his mouth.

“I came out to him,” he said. The words were so simple, the sentence so short, and yet it meant everything to him. Just like yesterday, he felt weight in his shoulders lessen.

If Lestrade was shocked, he hid it well. If anything, he seemed confused. “Wait. You told John you’re gay, and he just left?”

His hands shook as he tried to take a sip of tea, but he was unable to keep the cup perfectly still and ended up with a line of brown liquid falling down his chin. He wiped it away, scowling a bit at the feeling of his growing beard. He hated facial hair. It made him feel unkempt. Yet, he was unable to do anything about it for the exact same reason he’d just spilled his tea.

“There was a bit more to it,” he replied.

“Well?”

“It’s more personal.”

Lestrade wasn’t an idiot. Sherlock had always known this. It was why he kept going to him in search of cases and why he tolerated the man’s presence in his life. He knew Lestrade understood exactly what he meant. Lestrade knew just what Sherlock had said that made John flee, made John hide. He knew it without Sherlock having to tell him. For that, Sherlock would be forever grateful.

“I’d always suspected, you know,” Lestrade said. “After years of never seeing you with anyone, and then suddenly you show up with a man who – no offense to John – didn’t seem particularly remarkable.”

“But that’s exactly why he is remarkable,” Sherlock said, the words coming out easier than he’d thought they would. “I was just as astounded as you were. The thought that someone like him could be so fascinating… I never would have considered it. He wears jumpers, for God’s sake. And watches _Doctor Who._ ” _And always puts too much sugar in his tea and takes military showers and never sleeps facing away from the door and buys milk before we can properly run out and knows my takeout preferences and…_

“And then you fell for him,” Lestrade said, interrupting Sherlock’s whirlwind thoughts, “and you didn’t care about any of that.”

Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest, a defensive position if there ever was one. “Of course I cared. I just learned to cope with it.”

Lestrade shook his head as if to say, _Yeah, sure._ Sherlock glared at him.

“Why are we even discussing this? He knows and he ran and now he’ll never come back here. He’ll never want to see me again. I’ve lost him.” The admission fractured his already battered heart further. He’d done so much to keep John with him, and in the end he’d failed.  The most important thing in his life… ruined.

 _Well of course you’ve ruined it,_ he thought. _That’s what you do. Ruin things. Take them and break them apart into a million pieces. It’s what you’re truly good for._

He hadn’t even realized he’d started crying until Lestrade was by his side, brushing his tears away. His first instinct was to shove him away, lash out with a scathing remark, and retreat into his bedroom. It was what he had trained himself to do, what he had always done whenever his godawful emotions refused to be silenced and locked away. Things were better this way, he had always told himself. He preferred it that way, or at least he had before a certain ex-army doctor limped into his life. Now it was harder than ever to stifle his emotions and keep himself away from the comfort he desperately craved. After days of withdrawals, of recovering from the brink of death, after weeks of nothing but bleakness, he couldn’t hold himself together any longer.

He finally broke.

“Shhh…” Lestrade murmured, cradling Sherlock as he sobbed. “It’s alright. It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re okay, Sherlock.”

He wanted John. He wanted John and the softness of his jumpers and the smell of his aftershave and the warmth of his skin and the firmness of his body and the beauty of his smile and the brightness of his eyes. He wanted all of it. He wanted the John he hadn’t seen in so long.

He wanted what he couldn’t have.

<><><> 

Lestrade turned up at his house later that night. John wasn’t as surprised as he should have been.

“Evening, Greg,” said John, opening his door wider. Lestrade’s normally friendly face was stormy, and John had a sinking feeling he knew exactly what brought the DI to his doorstep at nearly eleven at night. He holds up his glass of whiskey (his second of the night). “Want a drink?”

“I’ll pass, thanks.” John stepped aside and watched as Lestrade strode into the house. He noted the tenseness in his back, the clenching of his fist. The signs of anger were all there. With a jerk of his wrist, he downed the last of his drink and shut the door behind him.

“You told me you needed to be with Rosie tonight,” said Lestrade. He turned to face John, arms crossed. John felt a bit like a little boy being chastised by his father. The thought of his father made his stomach turn, and he immediately crossed to the kitchen to put his glass in the sink. Two drinks were enough for tonight.

“That wasn’t a lie,” he said, his back to Lestrade. “I haven’t been spending enough time with her lately. I’ve been failing her.”

“She’s not the only one you’ve been failing.”

The always-simmering rage inside of John threatened to rise up and overtake him, and it took every ounce of his strength to push it down. These days, he was constantly a hair’s breadth away from snapping. He was tired of feeling angry all the time, but the burning hot emotion refused to leave. It scared him every day.

“So you talked to him.”

Lestrade scoffed, and John faced him, leaning back against the sink. There was a fight brewing, and he was ready. He craved it, in a sickening way.

“Of course I bloody talked to him. I spent four hours at his flat because _you_ asked me to go in your place. He’s a wreck, John, and he thinks you hate him.”

John clenched his jaw. “I don’t hate him.” _Could never hate him, no matter how much I try._

“You’re doing a real good job of convincing him of it. Blaming him for your wife’s death, keeping him out of your life, avoiding him at all costs. Well done, really. The man tells you he loves you and you leave without another word.”

His skin felt hot the way it did whenever he found himself in a terrifying situation. “He told you that?”

Lestrade shrugged. “More or less.”

John suddenly wished he hadn’t washed out his glass, but he was already feeling rather light-headed. He’d wanted to take the edge off of his suffocating emotions, and the whiskey had done the trick. But it also made his tongue looser than he would’ve liked.

“You don’t understand.”

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow. “Then why don’t you help me?”

John snorted. “You playing mediator now?”

“If it gets the two of you idiots to stop destroying yourselves, then yeah, I am.”

Rosie’s baby monitor was sitting on the kitchen table, and John could hear her snuffling through it. Now would be the perfect time for her to wake up crying, demanding her father’s attention, but he had feeling this was going to be a full night of sleep for her. Traitor.

“Look,” John said. His addled brain made it difficult to properly voice his thoughts. “Whatever Sherlock feels about me is… wrong. It’s all wrong.”

Somehow, that made Lestrade angrier. “I never took you to be a homophobe.”

“What? No, no, that’s not – I’m not – I couldn’t possibly be a –”

“After everything Sherlock has done for you, after everything you’ve done for _him_ , you seriously can’t accept him for who he is?”

John shook his head. “No, Greg, that wasn’t what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?”

His anger was ebbing, leaving behind the familiar pang of self-loathing. His oldest friend. “I meant – I meant to say – he shouldn’t love me. After everything I’ve done to him, he shouldn’t. It’s wrong.”

Lestrade softened, though he still seemed very irritated. “So you didn’t leave because he’s gay?”

John almost laughed. “No. That would be pretty hypocritical of me if I did.”

That was the closest he’d ever come to admitting it out loud. It was the alcohol’s doing, he knew, but he still managed to feel a bit proud of himself. He hadn’t felt that in a long time.

“You too?” Lestrade asked, looking genuinely surprised. John couldn’t blame him, considering how often he’d insisted he wasn’t gay. According to Sherlock, he did it all the time.

“Not fully,” he admitted, his lowered inhibitions pushing him on. “I still like women. But I like men too.”

Lestrade nodded slowly. “Okay… Okay, yeah. I can see that.”

John actually did laugh that time. “Do I look like a proper bisexual?”

Lestrade grinned, and John could almost believe they were just two mates having a laugh. “I just meant I’ve seen you checking out some guys.”

“And here I was, thinking I had everyone fooled.”

Lestrade sobered. “You have Sherlock fooled.”

John realized that. Despite his incredible observational skills, Sherlock didn’t see what was right in front of him. It both astounded and frustrated John to no end. He never knew he was the cause of Sherlock’s heartbreak because he never knew the depth of Sherlock’s feelings for him, but now that he knew, he hated himself more than ever before. His therapist would tell him that was too much self-loathing for one person. He would just laugh and shrug, as if to say, _Oh, well._

“I’m a coward,” John said, looking Lestrade straight in the eye. “I know I am. I blamed him for Mary’s death when it wasn’t his fault, and I ran when he confided in me. I could’ve gone to see him today, but I didn’t because I was afraid of what I’d say. I don’t trust myself around him anymore.”

He’d always had nightmares, but the subject of them had changed over the years. Recently they often were about Mary’s death, but the past few nights had featured Sherlock, curled up on the floor of the morgue, bloody and broken. John had put them there, and he woke up gasping every time, filled to the brim with remorse.

The truth was, he missed Sherlock more than he’d ever missed anyone. It was like when Sherlock had jumped off Bart’s, only worse because he knew Sherlock was still alive and would let him into 221B if he asked. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“John,” Lestrade said, a touch disapprovingly. “You can’t avoid him forever.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Lestrade’s next words knocked the breath from his lungs. “Because neither of you can live without the other.”

His eyes burned, and his chest was tight. His head was spinning, thanks to the alcohol and what Lestrade had just said. Because he was _right._ John had said it himself years ago. “Sherlock lives means John Watson lives.” It was still on the Internet for everyone to see. And it would never stop being true, because Sherlock Holmes was just as much a part of John as John’s own daughter was.

And John needed Sherlock.

“How do I fix this?” he asked, the desperation slipping into his voice. “What do I do?”

Lestrade seemed pleased he’d gotten John to accept it. John would need to take him out for a pint or twenty once this was all finished. “Just sit and talk with him. That’s what he needs most right now, and I’m pretty sure it’s what you need too.”

The thought of talking to Sherlock about everything – and he was certain they would need to talk about _everything_ – was frankly more terrifying than war, but he’d have to do it if he wanted Sherlock back. “I’ll go tomorrow. Wait, no, Rosie has appointments in the morning, and I said I’d take an emergency shift at the surgery. So, the day after. After my therapist appointment.”

Lestrade nodded approvingly. “Good man. I know it’s hard, but you two will work it out. You always do.”

John was feeling pretty confident about it as he got into bed that night, but when he woke up several hours later, shocked out of a dream in which Sherlock bled at his feet, he felt doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's left kudos and subscribed! Hope you liked this chapter. There will be more to come!


	3. Chapter 3

For the first time in several weeks, Sherlock allowed himself to look in the mirror.

His face was still gaunt, his eyes still dim, but there was a vibrancy that hadn’t been there a few days ago. That would be due to all the tea and food he’d been force-fed by Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. The dark circles under his eyes hadn’t lessened much, but they weren’t as pronounced now. And, most importantly, his growing facial hair was gone. His hands still had difficulty keeping steady, but Lestrade had helped shave him when he’d been by two days ago.

Once Sherlock had composed himself, Lestrade eyed him thoughtfully and ran his fingers over the stubble on Sherlock’s jaw. “You hate this, don’t you?”

“What do you think?” Sherlock tried to sound his normal haughty self in an attempt to erase the memory of what had just transpired between them, but his nose was still stuffed, and it just made him sound pathetic. Lestrade nodded and steered him into the bathroom, where he carefully shaved off every strand of hair.

That simple act was what spurred Sherlock into cleaning the rest of himself up. He showered once Lestrade left and washed his hair. The next day, instead of wearing his dressing gown and pajamas around the flat, he’d put on one of his usual suits and button-down shirts. He even wore shoes despite not actually leaving the place. He just needed to feel clean again. To feel like an actual functioning person.

John hadn’t been in contact once, and Sherlock couldn’t say he was surprised. Even if it had only been three days since he last saw him – since his biggest secret had been exposed – he doubted he was going to be hearing from John any time soon. There was even a chance he wouldn’t ever speak to John ever again, but that was a thought he only had during the darkest hours of night, when he was curled up in his bed listening to the familiar creaking of the flat. It was unlikely John would seriously never speak to him again, but he was still worried.

_Why would he want to see you? After everything you’ve done, why would he put himself through that again?_

Sherlock shook his head as if to physically erase the thoughts from his mind and focused again on his reflection. Same weird eyes, same alien face. At least the facial hair was gone.

Somewhere in the depths of the flat, his mobile rang. He contemplated not answering before realizing it could be John. The odds of that were incredibly low, but his heart still lifted hopefully, and he left his bedroom in search of the mobile.

Several rings had passed by the time he located it underneath a pile of papers. A quick look at the caller ID told him it wasn’t John, and his heart sank even lower than before. It wasn’t even a number he recognized. Frowning, he hit “Answer.”

“Hello?”

“Is this Sherlock Holmes?” a crisp female voice asked. His frown deepened.

“Yes.”

“I’m calling because you’re listed as John Watson’s emergency contact. Mr. Watson has been shot, and we need you to –”

“He’s been _what?_ ” Sherlock hated repetition, and he usually avoided it at all costs, but in this moment, he couldn’t comprehend what he’d just heard. There had to have been a mistake. John wasn’t – John couldn’t have been – he’d just seen him a few days ago…

As the nurse calmly repeated the words and filled in the blanks, Sherlock lowered himself into the nearest chair, his stomach roiling and his throat tightening. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized he was sitting in John’s chair, and the thought almost broke him.

“I’ll be there right away,” he croaked, clutching his phone. “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

He was already flagging down a cab before he realized the nurse wouldn’t be able to relay his message.

<><><> 

Pain. That was the first thing that registered.

Confusion. That was the second.

A faint beeping, and a familiar sterile smell. The third and fourth.

John tried to open his eyes, but it took far too much effort, so he chose to keep them shut for a bit longer. He could still catalogue things with his eyes closed. Things were coming back to him in fragments and tiny observations. If he just waited a moment longer, he could figure it all out.

He registered that he was lying in a bed, and that his right shoulder hurt. He registered that his throat was dry, and his eyelids were incredibly heavy, and his mind was swimming. For any other person, this would be a terrifying situation, and they would probably have a hard time understanding what was going on, but this wasn’t the first time he had been shot, so things came to him much easier.

Oh. _I’ve been shot,_ he realized, his thoughts sounding foggy and distant. _But by whom?_

Chunks of memory floated by, and he pictured himself trying to grab at them like a child would a bubble or leaf. This wasn’t Afghanistan, that was long gone. Moriarty was long gone, Magnussen was long gone…

Mary was long gone. Somewhere in his addled mind, he thought it was hilarious that they all had names that began with M. Hilarious and heartbreaking.

The woman on the bus. Her face rushed up to the forefront of his mind, and his heart gave the same tiny thrill it always did when he received a text from her. It wasn’t the kind of thrill that came from love or even infatuation, but the thrill that was associated with danger and illicit activities and the feeling of being alive.

He watched as her hair shortened and shifted from red to silver. As her eye color changed and was covered by glasses. As her flirtatious smile curved into a maniacal smirk.

E stood for Eurus. Eurus Holmes. The woman he’d been texting (been cheating with), the woman who was his therapist, the woman who shot him… was his best friend’s sister.

Talk about a plot twist.

John shoved the sickening thought away and focused again on his surroundings. He was in hospital, and he was alive. Both good things to know. The room he was in seemed quiet, but if strained his ears enough he thought he could make out the occasional sigh.

It took a great deal of effort to open his eyes, but he succeeded in prying them open just a smidge. The lights were turned down for him, but it still felt too bright. He grumbled in discomfort as his eyes slid shut again. Off to his right, he heard the groaning of a chair being pulled forward.

“John?”

That voice. John knew that voice so well. It haunted his dreams, heated his skin, and lifted his spirits. It both broke his heart and mended it. That voice would never speak and not get some kind of reaction from him.

 _He’s here,_ he thought. _He’s here for me. After everything I’ve done._

“Sh’lock?” His tongue was heavy in his mouth, and his throat was still impossibly dry. This time, he managed to open his eyes wider, and once his vision cleared, he could see Sherlock sitting beside the bed. He was clean-shaven once more, though the rest of his appearance spoke of the recent health crisis he’d been through. His face was too pale, the bags under his eyes too dark. His skin still seemed tight around his bones.

And yet, he was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

“I’m here,” Sherlock said, and John could’ve cried with relief. “I came as soon as I heard.”

“How’d I get here?” rasped John. Sherlock looked around for a moment before picking up a cup of water and bringing it to John’s lips. John smiled a bit when he saw the straw poking up past the rim. He sipped the water gratefully, enjoying the feeling of it soothing his mouth.

“You were shot,” Sherlock replied once he’d set the water back down. “By your therapist.”

He knew this already, and while Sherlock deserved to know the truth about who his therapist was, he wasn’t ready for that conversation. He repeated his previous question.

“A neighbor heard the gunshot.” Sherlock looked down. “You were in surgery for five hours.”

John snorted. “Funny. Last time it was six.”

The look on Sherlock’s face told him he didn’t think it was as amusing. John searched his mind for another question.

“Rosie?”

“Fine,” Sherlock answered. “Molly is watching her now.”

“She’s a good godmother.” John’s brow furrowed, and he studied Sherlock. “You came as soon as you heard?”

“Yes.”

“Have you been here the whole time?”

A slight look of embarrassment crossed Sherlock’s face, and he looked away from John. “I don’t have anything else on right now, so I thought I might as well stay.”

Something warm blossomed in John’s chest, though it was quickly shot down as he recalled their last face-to-face interaction.

John at 221B. Sherlock coming out to him. John realizing Sherlock was in love with him. Sherlock leaving the room and John leaving the flat. John avoiding seeing him the next day.

He hated how complicated everything had become. He still didn’t know how to fix it, but he had to start somewhere.

“Sherlock,” he murmured, getting the other man to look at him again. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock looked startled. “For what?”

 _Everything,_ he thought, his gaze traveling over the still-healing cut on Sherlock’s face. He would never be able to say enough apologies to make up for that, but damn if he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life trying.

“For leaving,” he said. “After you came out.”

“Oh.” Sherlock hid it well, but John could tell he was surprised. He swallowed and pressed his lips together. “It’s fine. I can understand how a revelation like that might upset you.”

John shook his head right away. “No, no, I’m not upset…” He desperately needed Sherlock to know it was okay, he wasn’t angry with him. He still cared about Sherlock with every fiber of his being. But the words wouldn’t come. He was still sluggish from the surgery, and his shoulder hurt an awful lot. He looked around in search of his morphine drip. Sherlock seemed to understand, for he reached over a turned it up a bit.

“You need rest,” Sherlock said, and the softness in his voice nearly brought John to tears. “I’ll tell the doctor you woke up for a bit. You can sleep now.”

Sleep sounded quite nice, but he needed Sherlock to understand. “’m sorry,” he said again. “I don’t care that you’re gay. It doesn’t matter.” _You’re still perfect to me._

Something flickered across Sherlock’s face. Relief? Happiness? It looked like one of those things. It made John smile, though he had a feeling it looked rather dopey. Everything about him was muddled.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. “We can talk more once you’ve rested.”

John stared at the cut on Sherlock’s brow. “I think we need to.”

Sherlock nodded and sat back in his chair. John’s eyelids were getting heavy again, and he was really looking forward to letting them stay closed. He’d almost drifted off again when he remembered another thing he had to tell Sherlock.

“Wait. Your sister,” he murmured, his eyes fighting to keep open. His thoughts were flying away from him, making it hard to concentrate. Sherlock frowned in confusion.

“My what?”

“Your sister,” repeated John, his words a bit slurred. “Eur-Eurus. She shot me.”

“I don’t have a sister, John.”

“You do,” he insisted. He sounded delirious, but he didn’t care. Sherlock needed to know. “She shot me. Your sister.”

Sherlock moved his chair closer to the bed and put his hand on John’s forehead, like he was checking for a fever. His fingers ghosted upward toward his hair, and John hummed in contentment.

“Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock said soothingly. “It’s going to be okay.”

John fell asleep with Sherlock stroking his hair, and when he woke up again several hours later, he couldn’t remember if it was a dream or not.

<><><> 

“Look,” Sherlock said. “I understand that you don’t want to eat right now. I rarely have a desire to eat myself. But you have to.”

Rosie stared back at him, uncomprehending. Her spoon hovered right in front of her mouth, held in place by Sherlock. There was a clump of mashed carrots on it, something Molly had promised was her favorite.

Sherlock thought she was a liar.

“Watson,” he said, trying not to lose his patience. “If you do not eat this admittedly disgusting food, I will not let you watch those mind-numbing cartoons you like so much.” He thought that was how someone was supposed to rationalize with children. Wasn’t it? Rosie’s face didn’t change, so maybe he had his information wrong.

He was in the process of pulling out his phone to Google it when he heard the front door being unlocked. Hastily putting away Rosie’s food, he picked her up out of her high chair and nestled her against his side. She looked up at him, and he swore her expression was a bit smug. _I beat you, Uncle Sherlock. Told you I wasn’t hungry._

“Yes yes, alright,” he muttered. “No need to rub it in.”

“What?” He looked up to see John staring at him in awe. At least, he thought it was awe. John’s eyes had widened ever so slightly, and his mouth had fallen open. Behind him, Molly was closing the door, smiling and carrying a bag of John’s things.

Sherlock quickly checked over John and was satisfied with what he saw. His right arm was in a sling due to the gunshot wound, but the rest of him seemed healthy. He’d been eating enough and getting as much sleep as one could in a hospital. Of course, he had been suffering from extreme sleep-deprivation before the incident, so he still seemed fairly exhausted. But it was a start.

“What are you doing here?” John asked. Sherlock looked to Molly, who appeared apologetic.

“I thought Mrs. Hudson was watching Rosie today,” she said. Everyone had been taking turns minding the little girl while John was in the hospital. Thankfully, he had only been there for three days, so he wasn’t separated from his baby girl for long.

Sherlock had requested to be put on the rotation schedule after John had woken up. On that day, after John had fallen asleep once more, Sherlock had left the hospital and gone straight to John’s house. For the first time in weeks, he got to see his goddaughter, who had somehow gotten even more perfect since the last time he had seen her. Molly had been reluctant to hand her over, but a pleading look from Sherlock had quenched her fears.

“I want to help,” he’d said as he gazed at Rosie. She was in his lap, waving her rattle around.

“Help with…?”

“Taking care of her,” he replied, looking from Rosie to Molly. “While John is in hospital. It’s the least I can do.”

Molly bit her lip. “Are you sure you’re up for it? You’re still recovering…”

“I’m fine,” he said. He didn’t even have to put much effort into the lie, because it didn’t feel like a lie anymore. Perhaps it wasn’t. His hands’ shaking had finally lessened, and the cravings he’d felt in the early days of his detox had gone away. “I just want to help. I _am_ her godfather, after all.”

Molly had studied him for a moment before agreeing. Sherlock had been all too eager to return his attention to Rosie, who was smiling up at him like she was just as pleased as he was.

Mrs. Hudson was supposed to be there that day, but Sherlock had asked to take her shift. He claimed it was because Mrs. Hudson had already done enough and she deserved to rest, but really he wanted to spend more time with Rosie.

And he wanted to see John. But that was beside the point.

“She couldn’t make it,” he lied. “I offered to come in her place.”

Rosie made a huffy sound and reached for John, drawing everyone’s attention back to her. John softened, and a look of regret crossed his face.

“I’m sorry, my girl,” he said. “It’s going to be a while before I can hold you again.” He looked at his sling disdainfully.

Sherlock’s heart broke a little. That was unacceptable. John deserved to hold his daughter as much as he wanted.

“Not necessarily,” he said. John looked at him, his eyebrows raised. Sherlock nodded toward the couch. “Sit down.”

John made his way over and lowered himself down, wincing a bit as he jostled his shoulder. Sherlock walked over, pressing a quick kiss to Rosie’s head without thinking about it.

“Left arm out,” he instructed. A small smile started to curve onto John’s face as he obediently positioned his arm in a way that would allow him to hold Rosie. Sherlock carefully placed her in the crook of his elbow, holding his breath as he got close to John. He made sure she was settled and not close enough to hurt his shoulder before drawing back.

“Thank you,” John said softly, his eyes flicking up to him before looking back at his daughter. Sherlock watched them for a moment, his heart stuttering, before quickly moving away. They deserved a moment to themselves.

“Nicely done,” Molly murmured.

“It wasn’t difficult,” he said. “Anyone could’ve worked it out.”

Molly was giving him a knowing look that rankled him, so he turned away to finish cleaning up the remnants of Rosie’s unfinished lunch. He wiped down her high chair and put all the necessary dishes in the sink. When he faced the sitting room once again, he saw Molly watching him with a dumbstruck expression.

“What?”

She shook her head in amazement. “I just – I’ve never seen you do housework.”

He rolled his eyes as he walked back over to her. “I have done it before, you know. Need I remind you that I live alone? Mrs. Hudson refuses to do my dishes now.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John stiffen at his words. When he spoke, however, his voice was light.

“You do your own dishes now? The world truly is ending.”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

John smiled a little, and Sherlock thought the whole room got a little brighter. For one moment, they were looking at each other with the easy camaraderie they’d always had. Sherlock wasn’t counting the hospital because John had just woken up from surgery at the time.  It was what had been missing between them for a while now, what Sherlock had missed more than anything. Now there was a chance to get it back for good.

 _Things are going to get better now,_ he thought. _We can get back to the way we were before._

“So, um, do you need anything more from me?” Molly asked, breaking the moment. “I can make you some food, if you’re hungry.”

John shook his head. “Thanks, but I’m okay. Honestly, I think we’re all set. You can go home if you’d like.”

Molly smiled and said goodbye to Rosie and John before heading to the door. Sherlock continued to stand there, frozen. Was he expected to leave too? He didn’t want to.

“Sherlock?” Molly called. “You coming?”

Sherlock looked from her to John, who was steadfastly not looking at him. So much for things returning to normal between them.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just a moment.”

He picked up his coat from the kitchen and put it on as slowly as possible. He longed to ask John if he could stay. Surely John needed the help. He couldn’t take care of a baby with one arm. Or maybe he could and Sherlock just didn’t understand children well enough to know. What he did know was that he wasn't looking forward to going home to his empty flat.

He must’ve miscalculated. He thought John’s apology at the hospital, coupled with the way he’d acted toward Sherlock just now, meant that things were taking a turn for the better in their relationship. He thought John _wanted_ to make things better. He’d allowed himself to be filled with hope, only to be left with bitter disappointment.

Pulling his coat tighter around him, he walked over to the door, where Molly was still waiting. He was nearly there when he thought of something to say.

“Oh,” he said, turning to John, who looked up. “Just thought I’d tell you that you were right. About my sister.”

Molly made a small noise of surprise. John blinked.

“So you do have one, then?”

“Indeed. Mycroft told me everything I need to know and promised me he’s looking for her. In the meantime, he’s ensured this house is completely secure and will have people monitoring it twenty-four seven.”

John’s brows furrowed ever so slightly. “That’s not necessary.”

“She shot you, John.” That got another sound from Molly. “We have no guarantee that she won’t try to finish the job. Until she’s caught, you must be protected.”

John shifted Rosie in his arm and grimaced. Sherlock took a step forward, then stopped. “I think if anyone needs protection right now,” John said, trying to hide his discomfort and failing, “it’s you. She’s your sister.”

“Baker Street is secure,” replied Sherlock with a wave of his hand. “I’m fine. I’m more worried about you.”

“Yeah, well, I’m worried about _you_.”

Sherlock swallowed the retort he’d prepared. John was staring at him levelly, and suddenly there was a lump in his throat. Maybe he’d miscalculated that he miscalculated.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, this time gentler. “Mycroft has told me the flat is perfectly safe, and no one is getting in unless I invite them.”

John held his gaze for a moment more before nodding. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Fine. Tell him thanks.”

He turned back to Rosie then, and Sherlock saw that is his cue to leave. “Of course. If you… need anything, don’t be afraid to call.” The silent _Please call even if you don’t need anything_ couldn’t be kept out of his voice. John glanced at him and gave a curt nod. Molly tugged on his sleeve, and he finally allowed himself to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Eurus does exist in this, but she won't be a big part of it. This fic is about the boys and their healing. It remains to be seen if she'll play a bigger role later on, but for now she's just off to the side.
> 
> I also don't have any medical knowledge, so I apologize for any error or questionable tidbits.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the little delay for this one, I hope to get the next one up sooner (but as usual, I make no promises).
> 
> Also, just to reiterate: I am not a doctor, so recovery processes are a bit fudged here. As is the layout for John's house because the show didn't give us much detail.

Being a single parent was tough. John had only been one for a month and a half, but he already knew how much of a challenge it was.

It turned out that it was even harder when said single parent only had one available arm.

John had been fine for a while after Sherlock and Molly left, letting himself relax by holding tightly onto Rosie with his left arm. He was thankful his little girl seemed to understand Daddy really needed her to keep still, because he knew that if she wiggled too much, he wouldn’t be able to stabilize her before she inevitably fell from his grasp. But she, perfect angel that she was (in that moment), stayed still.

His first indicator that things were not going to go well came when his arm began to cramp. He brushed it off for as long as he could, since he’d endured far worse pain in the past (his right shoulder currently being proof of that). Eventually, however, it became too much to ignore, and he accepted that he needed to come up with a new plan.

Around the time he started formulating this new plan, he became very aware of a growing squishiness on his lap, right under Rosie’s bum. He groaned and looked at his daughter.

“You need a change, don’t you?”

Rosie had just blinked at him, but somehow that was all the confirmation he needed.

Carrying and holding Rosie with one arm wasn’t a challenge, but doing just about everything else was. He couldn’t change her diaper, couldn’t feed her a bottle, and certainly couldn’t give her the bath she needed.

He knew he should call someone to help, but his stubbornness wouldn’t let him. He hated to admit that Mary had been right in that video sent to Sherlock, but it was true. He had a problem with accepting help. Hearing her say that had made his skin prickle with irritation.  He disliked being analyzed and having people draw conclusions about him like they knew him better than he knew himself. Unfortunately, he’d somehow surrounded himself with people who did exactly that all the time. It grated on his already tense nerves.

That didn’t change the fact that he currently had a very big problem. His daughter needed to be taken care of, and he only had one working arm, thanks to Sherlock’s long lost psycho sister. The mere thought of Sherlock (even if it was by way of his sister) made John’s stomach twist, and he couldn’t tell if it was a pleasant sensation or not. There used to be a time when it was, but things had changed and fractured between them. He still felt immense guilt, and it hadn’t been helped at all by seeing Sherlock the day he came home from the hospital.

Sherlock had looked so… _perfect_ holding Rosie. She fit in his arms, and his eyes had shone brighter than they had in a while, and John had certainly noticed the little kiss he’d pressed to Rosie’s head. It made his heart sing, and he longed to ask Sherlock to stay. It would’ve been nice, having a night with him and Rosie. It was something he’d dreamt about in the past. However, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The guilt was a lump in his throat that stoppered any words he wanted to say. He didn’t know where to begin, and, frankly, he was afraid to figure it out. He was afraid of ruining everything and losing one of the most important people in his life.

Of course, by not asking Sherlock to stay, John was presented with his conundrum. Having an extra set of hands would’ve been ideal, but he didn’t have them.

After attempting to change Rosie’s diaper with one hand, he finally accepted that he was in way over his head. He dug his phone out of his pocket and called the only person he could deal with at the present moment.

“I should’ve asked you to stay earlier,” he said now, seated at the kitchen table. There was an untouched plate of spaghetti in front of him, as well as a rapidly cooling cup of tea. He fidgeted with his sling and was rewarded with a flare of pain.

“It’s no problem,” Molly said, bouncing Rosie in her arms as she fed her a bottle. “I didn’t have any other plans.”

“Still.” He poked at his food with his fork. “You’ve been a lifesaver recently. I owe you. Several times over.”

“Hush,” she said, a soft smile on her face. “As godmother, it’s my job to help out.”

John managed a small smile back. Despite knowing Molly for several years, he honestly couldn’t say they had truly become close friends until recently. The occasional conversation while Sherlock banged around in the labs at Bart’s didn’t really make for a strong friendship. However, after Rosie had been born and Molly had been made co-godmother, she’d been over a lot more, especially once Mary had passed. John honestly didn’t know what state he would be in without her. And in talking to her, he’d begun to realize there was so much he didn’t know about her, which just wasn’t fair.

“How’s the shoulder?” she asked. “Do you need more medication?”

John shook his head. “I took some a while ago.”

Molly gave him a look. He stared back. Then he sighed, relenting. “I don’t need it.”

“You were shot,” she reminded him. “You’re in pain. It’s okay to admit you need something to help you get through.”

“I’m really okay,” he said. “I’ve had worse.” He sat up straighter in his chair, which only served to jostle his shoulder more. Gritting his teeth together, he glanced up at Molly, whose look told him she didn’t believe him for a second.

“I know what you’re doing.” As she spoke, she set the now-empty bottle into the sink and adjusted Rosie so she could burp her.

“And what am I doing?”

“You think you deserve to feel the pain.” Molly watched him steadily as she patted Rosie’s back. “You want to hurt.”

John sniffed and put his fork down when he realized he’d been gripping it too tightly. “If I wanted to be psychoanalyzed, I’d see my therapist. Oh, wait…”

“John,” Molly said softly. “You need to talk to him.”

“Talk to who?”

“You _know_ who.” Her normally shy demeanor was gone. It was actually quite thrilling to witness. “Watching the two of you today was painful. I know you’ve got your issues, and I know you feel guilty for what you did, but you can’t keep ignoring it forever. It’ll kill the both of you if you do.”

 _I’m going in circles,_ he thought. Hadn’t Lestrade just told him roughly the same thing a week ago? Hadn’t he told Lestrade he would go speak to Sherlock and fix things? Sherlock had been standing in his home hours ago, his eyes begging for John to speak to him, and John had let him go without a fight.

John shifted in his chair. Molly was alternating between looking at him and looking at Rosie, who was now on the verge of falling asleep in her arms.

“It’s… complicated,” he said. When did he become the biggest cliché in the world?

“Perhaps it is,” she replied. “But do you think prolonging it will make things any easier?”

John’s inability to come up with a response was enough of an answer.

Molly left to go put Rosie into bed. The silence that surrounded John in her absence felt suffocating. Living in this house was so different than living at Baker Street. Even when things were quiet there (which they rarely were), its location in central London provided an ambient hum that comforted John and distracted him from the crevices of his mind. Out here, in the suburbs, there was nothing to keep him away from his dark thoughts, his desperate dreams, or his relentless self-questioning.

He missed Sherlock. That was abundantly clear. And he wouldn’t be able to get him back until they cleared the air between them. That would require actual conversation and harsh realities, but it would be worth it if he got his Sherlock back. At least, that was what he told himself.

Molly reemerged from Rosie’s room a few minutes later. She looked at his full plate and shot him a disapproving look as she reheated it in the microwave.

“I can’t help tomorrow,” she said. “I’m sorry, but I have work.”

“Oh. That’s – that’s okay.” He shouldn’t have expected her to be at his beck and call. “I can ask Greg to come over.”

“He’s working too,” she said. “He told me he’s got a lot to do.”

 _Shit_. There were very few people John was willing to call for help, and that list was rapidly shrinking. Mrs. Hudson had just gone out of town, too. The only name left was…

“No. No, I – I can’t. I just can’t.”

“Why not?” Molly set his plate back in front of him. “He’s itching to help you. He asked me to be put on the schedule for watching Rosie while you were in the hospital. He’d come right now if you asked him to.”

“And that’s the problem!” He couldn’t stop his voice from raising a bit, and he immediately looked to the baby monitor to make sure he didn’t disturb Rosie. Satisfied she was still sleeping, he returned his focus to Molly, whose eyebrows had furrowed.

John sighed and rubbed his forehead with his left hand. “I’m not – I don’t know what to say to him. I’m not ready.”

Molly softened, her eyes shining with sympathy. John averted his gaze and pursed his lips.

“You can’t run from him forever,” she said gently. “Maybe you’re overthinking it. Maybe you just need to jump into it.”

John opened his mouth, then shut it. She had a good point. His thoughts were what had been stopping him, his fear that he’d blow up and ruin everything forever, or that he had already ruined it forever and he would just make it worse by trying to fix everything. He doubted those fears would go away even if he did just jump headfirst into it, but perhaps he wouldn’t have time to really consider those fears if he did.

“I’ll call him tomorrow,” he said hesitantly. Molly smiled encouragingly at him.

“You’ll see,” she said. “You’ll fix this. You always do.”

<><><> 

At Baker Street, silences never used to be a problem. Hours would pass by without John and Sherlock speaking a single word to each other. Whether this was due to Sherlock working in his Mind Palace or John typing out a blog post, both men felt comfortable and secure in the quiet that surrounded them. It was a peaceful sort of quiet, the kind that came from familiarity and contentedness. They never felt the need to fill it with pointless words or excessive noises.  Everything had been perfect just as they were.

The silence that filled the air now was not nearly as nice.

In the half hour that Sherlock had been there, John had said less than a hundred words to him, and he barely looked at him. Rosie paid more attention to Sherlock than her father had, and he was quite grateful for that, because the cold shoulder from John hurt more than he cared to admit.

He didn’t expect everything to be fixed the minute he walked through the door. That would be absurd and unrealistic. But he had hoped that since _John_ had _called him_ , things would be on the road to recovery. He and John would have a much needed talk, and then they would focus on repairing the fragile bond between them. By the end of the day, they’d have sunken into their easy and familiar banter and the pains of the past would be temporarily put in the rearview mirror.

Sherlock glanced over into the kitchen. From his vantage point on the sitting room floor, he had a good view of John. He sat at the table, reading something on his laptop. Or at least, he was pretending to read. Sherlock knew him well enough to know he hadn’t taken in a single word.

Something cushy hit his knee, and he looked down. Rosie grinned up at him as she raised her stuffed dog into the air before bringing it back down onto his knee. Despite the ache in his chest, he couldn’t help but smile back.

“She’s a playful one, isn’t she?” he ventured, his voice sounding quite loud in otherwise silent room. They were the first words spoken by anyone in seventeen minutes.

He watched as John started a little and flicked his eyes toward Sherlock before going back to his laptop. Sherlock felt a flare of irritation. “Yeah,” was all John said in reply.

He stared at John, taking in the way he purposefully kept his gaze forward and the way his shoulders (even the injured one) were tense. He was clenching his left hand, which was never a good sign. Sherlock felt the anger leak from his body and leave behind only exhaustion and heartbreak. As stupid and pointless as it was, he wanted to cry.

“Do you want me to go?” The words could’ve come out timid, but they were remarkably strong, despite the burning in his eyes. He didn’t look away from John, so he saw the way John flinched before looking at him.

“No,” John said. “I asked you here.”

“Right, because you needed help with Watson,” he replied coolly. “Molly and Lestrade were unavailable, I presume.”

The guilt in John’s eyes told him he’d gotten it right. It only hurt him more.

“Molly told me you wanted to spend more time with Rosie,” John said carefully. “It seemed like a good solution.”

“A good solution,” repeated Sherlock. “Right. Of course. How very kind of you.”

It came out a bit more bitter than he’d intended, and John winced. He averted his gaze again, and something broke inside of Sherlock.

“You can’t even look at me,” he said. John’s jaw tightened. “You invited me over because the people you wanted weren’t available, and now that I am here you can’t stand the sight of me. I repel you. You just can’t admit it to my face.”

“That’s not true.”

Rosie bashed her dog into Sherlock’s knee again, completely oblivious to the tension in the room. Sherlock envied her for that. He wished he could avoid all of it too, because there was an excellent chance this conversation was going to end with him alone. Again.

“If it’s untrue, then why have you barely spoken to me since I arrived? Why are you sitting so far? Why are you focusing so hard on your laptop but not actually absorbing any of it?” He tilted his head. “Why, John?”

It felt like an eternity, but John finally swiveled his head to look at Sherlock. Even from a distance, Sherlock could see the pain in his eyes. They were shining in that telltale way that meant Sherlock would be shattered in a moment.

“I can’t look at you,” said John, “because it hurts too much.”

 _Of course._ This was only the second time since Mary’s death that Sherlock had been inside the Watson house, and John still obviously blamed him for what happened to her. Of course he would be in pain. The man who caused her death was sitting on the floor playing with her daughter. He was in the spot Mary would have been if she was alive. It must’ve been a slap in the face for John.

“Oh,” Sherlock said. “I… I suppose I should’ve realized. How selfish of me.” He meant it, too. What a selfish idiot he was for not realizing John was still struggling with Mary’s death. “If you’d prefer, I can contact a nanny who can assist you on days where Molly and Lestrade cannot. Perhaps that would be better.” His very being cracked with every word he said, but he had to say it. It would be better for John. For John, he’d do it.

“What?” John somehow looked horrified. “No. No, don’t do that. That’s not necessary. Nothing will get fixed if you do that.”

Sherlock frowned in confusion. “I was under the impression things couldn’t be fixed.”

John’s expression shifted, and now he looked devastated. Sherlock’s heart clenched at the sight. Why was it he couldn’t stop causing this man pain?

“You really think that?”

Rosie made a noise that indicated she was quite annoyed with being ignored. Without thinking, Sherlock picked her up and nestled her into his lap. John’s eyes widened slightly, and he pressed his lips together.

“I just assumed…” Sherlock said, lost. “Because of Mary…”

“You think this is about Mary?” John shook his head. He rose from his chair and walked closer to the sitting room. Sherlock was vulnerable on the floor.

“Isn’t it? I’m the reason she’s –”

“Don’t,” John said. “Don’t say that. It’s not true.”

“Yes, it –”

“ _Stop._ ” John’s tone made Sherlock snap his mouth shut. “Her death was not your fault. I should not have blamed you for it. I was hurt and angry and guilty, and I needed a scapegoat. You were it, and that wasn’t fair.”

Sherlock’s mind had caught on “guilty,” but he pushed it aside for the present moment. He couldn’t reconcile his actions with John’s words. “But, if I hadn’t –”

“For the love of –” John cut himself off, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He clenched his left hand into a fist before releasing and flexing it. “I hurt you, Sherlock. I punched you, and knocked you down, and – and you were defenseless, you were _bleeding._ I did that to you, and it is quite possibly the worst thing I have ever done. I don’t understand how you’re here right now. You should’ve been long gone, never to see me again. Christ.” He looked at Sherlock head on, and Sherlock was stupefied. “The cut on your face is finally gone, but I still see it. Every time I look at you. That’s why I don’t. Because then I can pretend it never happened.” He sniffed and looked away. “But it did.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. It was a rare occurrence, but it had been known to happen. Most often, it was because of John. He never failed to steal the words from Sherlock’s mouth.

The idea that John was so torn up over _that_ incident hadn’t even crossed Sherlock’s mind. It had hurt Sherlock, obviously, but John didn’t bring it up, so he thought they would just forget it. He assumed it would be added to the heaping pile of things they never talked about but probably should. It was easier that way.

“It’s okay,” Sherlock said quietly. “You were distraught. I probably deserved it.”

John’s face twisted up with pain and horror. His mouth hung open, and his eyes widened. The lines on his face became more pronounced. He shook his head.

“No. No, don’t ever say that. You didn’t deserve – absolutely not.” John looked so hurt. “Sherlock. You can’t really believe you… please tell me you don’t.”

He hadn’t thought it was a big deal. It was what he’d been telling himself ever since it happened. It was just a simple fact. He was responsible for Mary’s death, and so he deserved to be punished. That was what happened to people who destroyed other people’s lives. They were punished.

He didn’t respond to John, which only made him more upset. He sat down heavily onto the coffee table, staring at Rosie, who finally appeared to be picking up on the high emotions flying through the room.

“Sherlock,” said John, his hand digging into his knee. “I am so sorry. So very sorry. I shouldn’t have hurt you. You didn’t _deserve_ to be hurt. You – God, you deserve so much more than that. You were her friend too. You mourned her.”

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered. John’s eyes crinkled with sympathy.

“I know that nothing I can say will ever be enough to make up for what I did. But I know I need to try. You deserve better.”

“John…” Sherlock wished he could reach out and touch him, but that wasn’t something he was allowed, and Rosie would still be in the way even if it was.

“No,” John said, shaking his head. “Please don’t say anything. Someday, I hope you’ll understand. And then maybe you’ll decide you never want to see me again. I wouldn’t blame you.”

There were so many feelings whizzing around inside of Sherlock. He couldn’t keep them all straight, and it was making him dizzy, but he was positive of one thing: They all _hurt._ They hurt so much, and at least thirty-seven percent of the pain was due to the tears clinging to John’s eyelashes.

“I’ll always want to see you,” he said. “No matter what, I’ll always want to.”

John did not seem convinced in the slightest, but he managed a tremulous smile. Sherlock offered one in return.

“I’m sorry,” John said.

“You said that already.”

“This time I’m apologizing for neglecting you. And ignoring you, and pushing you away, and making you feel like I didn’t accept you.”

This man just wouldn’t stop. Sherlock hadn’t expected any of this when he first came over, but he couldn’t say he was against it. Not if it meant they were finally talking.

“I forgive you.”

“You could take more time.” John wiped his eyes. “If you needed it.”

“I don’t.”

John glanced at him, as if checking to see if he was serious. Then he nodded. “Thank you.”

“Thank you for apologizing.”

John shrugged his right shoulder without thinking and winced. “It was overdue.”

John’s sling was dark blue and made of polyester. Sherlock hated the sight of it. It was another reminder that he’d been hurt, that he had nearly died. Sherlock tried not to think about it, because too much thought devoted to the subject of John dying only fueled his nightmares, and he didn’t need to contribute to those.

“How long to do you have to wear that?” He nodded toward the sling, and John looked down at it.

“Three weeks.” He looked to his daughter. “Don’t know how I’m going to manage this one during that time.”

Rosie, satisfied things had been brought back to normal, had returned to playing with her stuffed dog. As if she knew her father was talking about her, she tilted her head up toward him and held out her dog. John smiled and took it from her with a soft murmur of gratitude. Watching them made Sherlock inexplicably happy.

“I’ll continue to help,” he said. “Provided you want me to.”

John nodded. “I do. As many times as you’re able. Though that doesn’t solve what I’ll do at night.” He snorted. “You should just move in.”

He had clearly meant it as a joke, but it landed heavier than that. Sherlock’s lips parted. John looked startled. Rosie made a cooing noise.

“That’s – That’s actually not a terrible idea,” John said. Now it was Sherlock’s turn to appear surprised.

“It’s not? Need I remind you that ten minutes ago you could hardly look at me?”

Sherlock was glad John barely flinched at that. “But that’s just the thing. Every time you and I make a tiny bit of progress, we go days without seeing each other and we end up at the very beginning. Maybe this would help us move forward instead of backward.”

The logic was sound, and, truth be told, Sherlock was desperate to live with John again. The little bit of time they’d spent together while Mary had been on the run wasn’t enough. He craved it like he used to crave harder substances. Living without John Watson didn’t feel right.

“Are you sure you’d be comfortable with it?” he asked instead of agreeing like his heart was shouting at him to do.

“Why wouldn’t I be comfortable with it? I know we have stuff to work through, but this could be a good way to do it.”

“No.” Sherlock bit his lip. “I meant – you would be comfortable with me staying here after what I told you last week?” He felt vulnerable and he hated it. He hadn’t felt that way about his sexuality since he was a teenager, and now it had happened twice in a week. It was terrifying.

John looked like a mixture of amused and ashamed. “I’ve lived with you before. I’d just be living with you again. Nothing’s changed.”

 _On the contrary,_ Sherlock thought. _Everything has changed._ Because he hadn’t just revealed his sexuality to John. He revealed so much more, and based on the way John was struggling to maintain eye contact, he could tell John was thinking about it too.

“If you’re okay with it,” Sherlock said, giving him one last out. John handed the stuffed dog back to Rosie.

“I can mind her for a bit while you go get your things. We shouldn’t run into any trouble.” John flicked his gaze over to him. “Provided you’re up for it too.”

Sherlock found himself nodding, his veins already thrumming with excitement. “I’ll be back in an hour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay with this one, my personal life got really messy and stressful in the past week, leading me to put off finishing this. It turned out to be a nice stress-reliever though, when I actually worked on it, so that was nice, and now here we are. Hope you enjoy!

Sherlock made dinner that night. And it was… surprisingly good.

After he returned with a bag of his things, John had shown him to the guest room. It was small and barely furnished – just a queen-sized bed, a nightstand, and a set of drawers. The bed didn’t even have sheets or a comforter. It was quite depressing. John resented it.

“Sorry,” John said, cursing himself for apologizing so much. “Mary and I haven’t – we didn’t get to set this up.” Neither man looked at each other.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock replied, setting his bag on the bed. “I doubt I’ll be sleeping much anyway.”

“You need sleep, Sherlock.” John turned and left the room in search of blankets. “You’ve had a recent health crisis, you need to rest so you can feel better.” It took a bit of skillful maneuvering, but he managed to get the things he needed from the hall closet with only one arm. He returned with a stack of folded sheets and blankets balanced on his arm. Sherlock took them with a nod.

“I just meant that I’ll be tending to Watson, since you’re not able to.” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

John swallowed and gave a nod. “Right. And, you know, other things. But Rosie, yeah.” He glared at his sling. “Though she’s been doing well lately in terms of sleeping through the night.”

Sherlock took off his coat and laid it on top of the drawers. Moving his bag to the side, he got to work on making the bed. John’s eyes widened in surprise. Sherlock slowed his movements when he noticed.

“What?”

John shook his head. “It’s just, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you make your bed. Or do any housework, for that matter.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he dragged one corner of the fitted sheet over the mattress. John felt a bit guilty for doubting him, but it was true. He’d spent countless hours berating Sherlock for his laziness over the years, and he could recall multiple instances of him telling the genius to clean his dishes or pick up his books, only to discover a short while later that he’d done none of it.

“My mother was a strong believer in giving us our own chores.” Sherlock walked around the bed as he spoke so he could pull the fitted sheet to the other side. “She said it gave us responsibility. And character.”

John snorted. “Somehow, I can’t picture Mycroft doing chores.” Sherlock looked up at him and smirked.

“He took out the trash.”

The laughter that bubbled up in John was unfamiliar, but welcome. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d genuinely laughed.

Sherlock was still grinning at him. It felt normal, like the old days. John clung to it like the drowning man he was.

“What were your chores?” He leaned against the doorframe as Sherlock tucked the end of a sheet underneath the mattress. Seeing him do it made a contented warmth settle in his stomach. It was so domestic.

“Well, we both had to make our own beds.” Sherlock pulled the sheet taut across the bed. “My individual tasks included straightening up the sitting room, dusting, and taking care of Redbeard.”

John had been trying to imagine a tiny Sherlock doing housework when he realized he didn’t know how to. Picturing Sherlock as a child seemed impossible. It had crossed his mind a few times, sure. One didn’t meet someone like him and not wonder how he came to be. His life was surely a psychologist’s dream case study. However, John could honestly say he didn’t know a thing about Sherlock’s childhood, and filling in the blanks himself was impossible.

When they first met, John had instantly written him off as a posh boy who came from a rich family and went to a private school where all the students were children of lords or government officials. Sherlock probably grew up in a fancy manor with lots of servants and never had to want for anything. That assumption had only gotten stronger when John had met Mycroft, who was somehow ever posher than his brother.

And then he’d met Sherlock’s parents, and he’d gotten confused. They were so down-to-earth, so… _normal,_ that John wondered if he had misjudged everything. The visit to their home on Christmas nearly two years ago hadn’t cleared things up at all, and he never thought to ask Sherlock about it. Which was really quite odd, considering how it was _Sherlock’s_ childhood. If anyone would be able to tell John about it, it was him.

“Redbeard?” he asked, once he was certain he’d been quiet for too long. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, apparently caught up in his task of draping a comforter over the bed.

“My dog,” he replied. He straightened, satisfied with his work. John resisted the urge to smile.

“I didn’t know how had a dog.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

And there it was.  The awkwardness that was never far off between them these days had returned. John didn’t think Sherlock had intended for that sentence to act like a slap in the face, but that’s what it felt like. Because it was true. And considering how Sherlock was his best friend – supposedly his best friend – it shouldn’t be. It wasn’t right.

“Maybe,” said John slowly, “we should change that.”

John then became very aware of Sherlock’s eyes on him. Those piercing, mesmerizing eyes that didn’t seem to have a definite color but still knew how to make John’s knees weak. They were making them weak right now.

Sherlock almost seemed to be studying him, gauging his seriousness. John didn’t look away. He didn’t breathe either.

“What would you like to know?”

Inhale, exhale. _Everything._

John opened his mouth to speak, but shut it the second he heard Rosie wailing from downstairs. He’d left her in her playpen, believing he would only be gone for a moment while he got Sherlock settled. Instead, he’d been up there for nearly ten minutes.

“Later,” he said, reluctant. “Rosie needs to be taken care of right now.”

Sherlock nodded, and John couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or relieved. “She probably needs to be changed, since I doubt you changed her while I was gone.” He swept out of the room, leaving John dumbstruck. A few moments later, he could hear Sherlock’s deep voice rumbling as he spoke to Rosie downstairs.

He was beginning to wonder if inviting Sherlock to stay was a bad idea.

A few hours later, after Rosie had napped and Sherlock had settled in, John broached the topic of dinner. Sherlock immediately rose from his place on the couch and went into the kitchen. John followed after making sure Rosie was happily playing with her stuffed dog.

“What would you like to eat?” Sherlock asked as he rummaged through John’s cabinets. They were embarrassingly low on food, seeing as John hadn’t been home in days. (And before that, he hadn’t been in the mood for eating much.)

“Oh, I just thought we’d order takeout, or something.” He looked longingly toward the pile of takeout menus by the phone. Pad Thai sounded delightful.

“Oh.” Sherlock stopped his search. “That’s… fine, I suppose.”

John raised an eyebrow. “It doesn’t sound fine.”

“I just thought that perhaps – if you wanted – since I’m here to help out – I could make dinner.”

John wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh or cry. Laugh because the idea of Sherlock cooking seemed ridiculous, cry because _he was so sweet._

“Uh,” John said. “You know how to cook?”

Sherlock pushed his curls back, a nervous tick John sometimes noticed. “Not anything special. I can do pasta. And possibly soup.” He paused, frowning. “If it comes in a can.”

John didn’t even bother to hide his fond smile. He’d just had pasta last night, but how could he possibly refuse Sherlock?

“I think there’s a box of spaghetti in the top left cabinet. Have at it.”

He was rewarded with a pleased smile from Sherlock, and that honestly made eating the same dinner two nights in a row worth it. The fact that Sherlock might cock it up didn’t occur to him for another five minutes, and by that point it was too late. Though if it did, it wouldn’t be too disappointing. John was used to not eating dinner.

Twenty minutes later, he had a steaming plate of spaghetti in front of him. Rosie was to his left, tucked into her high chair, and Sherlock was across from him. He only had his own plate because John had insisted that he eat too. His portion was smaller than John’s, but John took the victory anyway.

John alternated between eating his dinner and feeding Rosie. Sherlock watched with keen eyes, and in any other situation, his attentiveness would have felt awkward. Instead, it made John inexplicably happy.

“I can feed her,” Sherlock offered after a few minutes of silence. John shook his head, offering him a quick smile.

“It’s alright. There’s so much I can’t do right now with her, so I’ll take what I can get.” He held up Rosie’s spoon and waited for her to open her mouth. She did, and John grinned as he fed her. “That’s my girl.”

“Fatherhood agrees with you,” Sherlock remarked. John’s cheeks got pink, and he ducked his head.

“I suppose,” he replied with a shrug. “I wasn’t sure how well I’d do. Didn’t really have the best role model.” He froze when he realized what he’d said and hastily shoved a bite of spaghetti into his mouth. Sherlock was watching him closely, a question in his eyes, and he swallowed.

“Dinner is really good,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

For a moment, it didn’t seem like Sherlock was going to let that slide, but then, mercifully, he did. “It’s not hard, John. All I had to do was boil water, and even an idiot is capable of that.”

“You still could’ve burned the pasta. I’ve definitely done that before.”

“Because you’re an idiot.” Sherlock’s eyes were sparkling.

“Careful, this idiot is supplying you with food for three weeks.”

“I am capable of going out and buying food myself.”

“Yeah, but you never do. I always did the shopping. You did it maybe five times.”

Sherlock looked offended. “Five? I beg to differ.”

“Oh really?”

“Really,” The corner of Sherlock’s lips quirked up. “I definitely did it at least six times.”

John laughed. Rosie looked at him and giggled too, like she wanted to be just like her dad. She banged her sippy cup against her chair.

“How about this,” Sherlock said. “Tomorrow, I’ll go to the store and pick up some groceries.”

It was amazing how many times Sherlock had surprised him in the course of one day. Even after knowing him for several years, he kept shocking him.

“Seriously?”

Sherlock nodded as he wiped away some drool from Rosie’s chin. “I noticed your cabinets are lacking food. You need more.”

John shrugged, chewing his food thoughtfully. “Yeah, okay. If you want.” He looked at Sherlock. “Thank you.”

Sherlock’s expression could only be described as soft. “You’re welcome.”

The only sounds for the next five minutes were the clinking of their silverware, Rosie’s cooing, and the occasional thudding of the sippy cup. The silence wasn’t oppressive like it had been recently, but comfortable.

John took the time to figure out how to bring up Sherlock’s childhood again. He had so many questions, and he was desperate to learn more about him, but he didn’t know how to mention it again without being weird about it.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Sherlock said. John looked up, caught.

“It’s not important.”

“But it’s bothering you.”

John pushed strands of spaghetti around his plate. “Bothering isn’t the word I’d choose.”

Sherlock slid his plate out of the way and clasped his hands together. “Then what is?”

John’s automatic response was to deflect, but he knew he couldn’t do that. Not if he was to be open and honest with Sherlock like he wanted. It was hard going against his instinct, but he managed to coax the words out.

“I was just thinking about… you.”

Sherlock’s eyes got big, and John thought that might not have been the best way to phrase it. But it was true, so…

“What about me?” Sherlock kept his voice casual, but John saw the slight tension in his expression.

“It’s nothing bad,” he promised. “I was just thinking more about your childhood. Because of earlier.”

He expected Sherlock to relax, but he didn’t. Instead, he almost seemed to get more anxious. John couldn’t blame him, really. He didn’t like talking about his childhood either.

“You want to know more about me.”

John nodded. “If you’re willing to tell me.” He licked his lips. “It just feels weird, knowing you for so long and yet not knowing much about you.”

“You know plenty about me.” John shook his head.

“Let’s see. I know that you play the violin, and you like to solve crimes, and you barely sleep and eat because you think it slows you down, and you say you hate crap telly but you really love it, and London is your favorite place in the world, and you have an arse of a brother, and you used to have a dog, and you’re gay, and you grew up in the country, and you used to do cocaine, and you wanted to be a pirate when you were a child.” He stopped there, mainly because he was almost out of breath, though the look on Sherlock’s face also helped. “And that’s practically all of it.” He picked up his glass and took a long sip of water.

“First,” Sherlock said, “you clearly know quite a bit. Second…” He frowned. “How did you know I wanted to be a pirate?”

John smiled into his glass. “Mycroft told me.”

Sherlock scowled. “Bastard.”

“Hey.” John nodded toward Rosie. “Little ears.”

“She’ll learn it eventually.”

“Not until she’s thirteen. At least.”

“With your mouth? I give her seven years.”

“Oi!” John was grinning despite himself. “I’ve gotten better.”

“Sure, John.”

John let the silence between them stretch out before he spoke again. “I just want to know about one thing.”

Sherlock sighed, and after a moments deliberation, nodded. John paused, trying to find a way to say it delicately. Though, really, there was no way to bring this particular topic up delicately, but after everything that had happened – everything he’d done – he needed to know more. There was a text thread on his phone that he had not deleted yet, and any time he considered it he found himself hesitating before going through with it. Why, exactly, he wasn’t sure.

“Did you really not know you had a sister?”

Sherlock blinked, and John realized he’d caught him off-guard. It was kind of amazing, but he also felt a bit bad. Things had been going so well, but now the mood shifted. At the mere mention of the third Holmes sibling, the room somehow got more stifling.

“No,” said Sherlock, staring at the table. “She was only around when I was very young. I don’t remember her.”

 “What happened to her?” John inched forward. His right shoulder ached.

Sherlock’s eyes were distant. All the light and easy banter between them at dissipated in the wake of the conversation. He spoke slowly and carefully.

“I was two when she was born,” he said. “According to Mycroft, I adored her.” He made a face. “As much as someone as young as I could. I must’ve been fascinated with her.”

“She was your baby sister,” John said. “Makes sense.”

“I suppose.”

John waited for him to continue, and when he didn’t, he prompted him. “So…”

Sherlock sighed. “When I was three, she was kidnapped. We were at the beach one day, my parents were distracted, Mycroft and I were occupied, and Eurus was… gone. Vanished into thin air.”

“Christ,” John muttered.

“Indeed. The police tried to look for her, but obviously they were not successful. My parents gave up hope of ever finding her, and to cope, they erased all memory of her. No pictures on the walls, no toys on the floor, nothing. I was young enough that over time I forgot about her. Mycroft has known about her all these years.” Sherlock’s lips curled into a sneer. “And he never told me.”

John mentally added that to the pile of things he loathed about Mycroft Holmes. The two of them had an interesting relationship that John sometimes truly enjoyed, but oftentimes John found himself utterly disgusted with the eldest Holmes. The things he did, the words he said… sometimes it was just too much.

“And your parents never mentioned her at all?”

Sherlock fixed him with a slightly irritated look. “They wanted to eliminate her from our family. It was the only way they could live with themselves. They couldn’t just bring her up casually like she’d gone off to university. She was taken from us.”

“Right,” John said, uncomfortable. “You’re right. It’s a terrible thing to happen to someone.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Losing a child or being kidnapped?”

“Well, both.” John shrugged. “Maybe that explains why she is the way she is.”

“Why do you care?” Sherlock’s gaze was shrewd. It made John squirm. “Why does this matter to you?”

“It’s your past too,” he said, which was true, even if it didn’t fully explain why he wanted to know. “I’m just trying to understand and learn more about you.”

“She shot you,” Sherlock reminded him, like he could forget. “Regardless of whatever happened to her as a child, she nearly killed you. She clearly does not care about her family, because if she did, she wouldn’t have harmed you.”

John thought of all the texts he’d exchanged with Eurus, all the late-night messages and hidden smiles. What he’d felt for her wasn’t anywhere close to love, but it had ignited something in him and made him feel like he was in control of _something_ for once in his life. Sure, the entire situation often left him riddled with guilt and confusion in the hours where the two of them did not communicate, but when it was happening, it felt like… like a drug. The comparison was a bit unnerving, but he realized it was true. To find out that it was all a sham, that she had only been doing it for some crazy, still-unknown plan was disappointing, and it left him empty and reaching for something he couldn’t see.

“John?”

John blinked and tore his gaze away from his cell phone, which was sitting on the counter behind Sherlock, charging. He didn’t even remember starting to look at it. “What?”

Sherlock’s brows were furrowed, and his gaze was even sharper than before. It took all of John’s willpower not to look away.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Sherlock said. John swallowed harshly and tried to look casual.

“What makes you say that?”

“You lost focus for nearly a minute, which tells me that you were thinking about something that has been consuming your thoughts for a long time. When I asked you about your reasoning for talking about my sister, you were immediately defensive and responded with something that is only partially true.”

John gritted his teeth. _Damn this man and his ability to know everything I’m thinking…_

“What’s going on?” Sherlock pressed. “What’s bothering you?”

“I don’t think it’s any of your business.” His tone was snappier than he’d intended, and he realized too late that his walls had jumped right back up. He was back to deflecting and hiding. And he couldn’t stop looking toward his phone.

Sherlock frowned, his gaze hardening. “So, you can ask me plenty of personal questions, but I can’t do the same with you?”

Something hard and cold settled into John’s chest. On top of everything, he was a hypocrite now. Lovely.

A loud clattering noise had both men jumping. Rosie, apparently done with being ignored, had flung her sippy cup onto the ground. She kicked her little legs around, making a whining noise that meant she wanted to be held.

Sherlock muttered something under his breath and stood up. He picked her sippy cup off the ground and set it on the counter before gathering his and John’s plates. His was mostly full, while John’s was nearly empty. The plates disappeared into the sink after being scraped off, and Sherlock turned the faucet on to begin washing them. John watched the whole time, the cold feeling in his chest nearly suffocating him.

“There was a woman,” he said, feeling distanced from his own words. “On the bus. She kept smiling at me, and I smiled back. The attention was nice. It had been a while. At my stop, I got off, and she followed. Gave me her number.” He paused, remembering how he sat at this very table and toyed with the paper fragment with a scribbled set of numbers. How he’d slowly and methodically punched them into his phone.

Sherlock hadn’t turned around, hadn’t said anything, but John knew he was listening. He turned the water off and began loading the plates into the dishwasher.

“We texted off and on for several weeks. It didn’t go beyond that, but it was obvious we both wanted it to. It was in our words. They were innocent, but they said a lot.”

Rosie made her whining noise again. Sherlock wiped his hands on a dish towel and picked her up. She beamed, happy to be the center of someone’s attention again. He bobbed her up and down, and John had to look away.

“As it turns out,” he said, “that woman was your sister. Pretending to be someone else to… I don’t know what. Get close to me to get to you? Probably, because I’m just an extension of you most of the time. But, yeah. That’s why I’m so curious about her. Because I cheated on my wife with her.” For so long, he had avoided using that word. Cheating. He’d tried to convince himself that that wasn’t what he was doing, that he was innocent and was still a good husband. But recently, he couldn’t deny that he’d never been a good husband. Not even on their wedding day.

(Not that he’d allowed himself to dwell much on that. He wasn’t ready for that emotional mess.)

Sherlock still wasn’t looking at him, instead focusing completely on Rosie. The gratefulness John felt about that was overshadowed by his intense need to know what Sherlock was thinking in that moment.

“Say something,” he said. “I know you must want to.”

“You could’ve been my brother-in-law.” It could’ve been meant as a joke, and in any other situation it probably would work as one, but in this moment, it fell flat and hard in between them. Like a brick. Or a body.

Sherlock must’ve realized this, for he quickly followed it up with, “You said it was only texting.”

“It was.”

Sherlock finally lifted his eyes from Rosie to John. They were unreadable, which frustrated John.

“Then you didn’t cheat on Mary. You were just talking to someone else. That someone just happened to be a woman. You did nothing wrong.”

Something pricked John’s eyes. He blinked them away. “I wanted to do it. I wanted more.”

Sherlock still did not look away, his face blank and cool. “It doesn’t matter what you wanted, because it didn’t happen. You didn’t cheat on Mary. You have no reason to be guilty.”

John couldn’t believe it. Sherlock was actually _validating_ him. He was trying to make him feel _better._ This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t what he had expected. It didn’t make him happy, though. It made him feel worse.

“My sister has clearly moved on from it,” Sherlock said, turning to leave the room with Rosie. “Perhaps you should too.”

<><><> 

That night, Sherlock couldn’t sleep.

He rarely slept, so it wasn’t a huge inconvenience, but it was still frustrating because he was actually _trying_ to sleep. He wanted the deep, heavy power of slumber to calm his raging thoughts. He wanted, for a few hours, to forget everything.

John had an almost-affair. With his sister. The sister he’d forgotten he had. The sister who shot John, the only man Sherlock had ever loved. The man Sherlock loved, who had been so dissatisfied with his marriage that he sought a connection with a woman he barely knew. (The key word being _woman_.) And then he was back at the beginning once more.

Sherlock turned over to his side, staring into the darkness of the guest room. He knew he probably reacted unfairly to John’s revelation, but, in all fairness, he could’ve reacted even worse than he did. What he’d felt in that moment had been a mix of surprise, disappointment, compassion, and heartbreak.

And probably a bit of betrayal. Which was unfair, but then again, he’d never been good at controlling his emotions.

He had been sincere when he told John he had nothing to be guilty for. Texts were harmless. He could have done something far worse, and then Sherlock didn’t know how he would’ve reacted. Thankfully, however, the affair had been kept within the confines of a tiny electronic device.

Still, Sherlock felt bad for Mary. He wasn’t sure how happy she had been with her marriage, but he was certain she didn’t dislike it enough to chase after another man. His feelings towards Mary were complicated at best, and a part of him – a really terrible and awful part of himself that he banished to the very back of his mind – was grateful she wasn’t around anymore so he didn’t have to sort it out. However, regardless of what he felt about her, she didn’t deserve to be cheated on.

And yet, there was another part of him that wondered… what if John had chosen _him_ to have a sort-of-affair with? The odds of that happening were impossibly slim, but in the hours since John telling him about it, Sherlock had envisioned it happening no less than nineteen times. His brain moved too fast for him to keep up sometimes.

 _John is straight,_ he mentally chanted. _You are his friend and nothing more._

He was in love with John, but John was married, so he hid his feelings away for the sake of preserving his best friend’s happiness.

But John apparently wasn’t so happy, and he found himself another human with whom to form a connection.

A human that wasn’t Sherlock.

Not that it would be Sherlock. Because John was straight.

Sherlock flopped onto his back. He was beginning to regret staying at John’s house.

A tiny cry pierced the night. Sherlock was upright in seconds and out his door in a few more. A distraction was just what he needed, and Rosie was going to provide it.

“Watson,” he said, keeping his voice low once he reached the nursery. “You’ll wake your father up with your crying.”

Rosie continued to wail, looking up at him plaintively from her cot. He scooped her up into his arms, marveling not for the first time at how small she was. She knotted his sleep shirt in her tiny, chubby fingers, and a small wet patch began to grow right beside her cheek. It didn’t bother him like he once thought it would.

“What’s the matter?” he murmured, rocking back and forth with her. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Her cries began to subside, but they hadn’t stopped completely. Sherlock glanced to the door to make sure John hadn’t been woken. He couldn’t hear or see anything, so he took it as a good thing. Starting to pace the nursery, he spoke to her quietly, hoping he could get her to drop off again.

“Bad dreams aren’t fun. I sometimes get them too. They keep me up at night, and sometimes I cry like you do. Don’t tell anyone.”

Rosie sniffled and looked up at him. Her eyes knocked the breath from Sherlock’s lungs. They were so familiar.

“Your father helped,” he said, those eyes compelling him to tell her everything. “Just him being nearby helped. That was right after… well, your mum hurt me a bit, and he stayed with me to make sure I was okay. The nightmares weren’t so bad then.” He paused, the memories clogging his throat. “And then he left.”

Her eyelids were drooping. He watched as he talked, still walking back and forth.

“You have the best father in the world, Miss Watson. He loves you unconditionally, and he would do anything for you. He may think he’s failing you right now, but I think the opposite. I think he’s doing everything to be better for you. And that’s pretty remarkable.” He kissed her head, unable to resist it. “Someday I’ll tell you all about it. Well, maybe not all of it.”

She was asleep now, her head pillowed on his chest, his shirt still held firmly in her grasp. He didn’t want to let her go, but he knew he had to. Carefully, he set her back in her cot and unwound her fingers from his shirt. She reached out for something to hold, and he tucked her dog into her arm.

If he stood there for another two minutes watching her, he would never tell.

<><><> 

Every night, ever since they had brought Rosie home, John and Mary got in the habit of turning on the baby monitors and situating them in two spots. One went in Rosie’s room, on her changing table. The other stayed in their room, on either of their nightstands. Since Mary’s death, the monitor was always on John’s side of the bed.

That night was no exception.

John lay on his left side, staring at the monitor, with its blinking green light that indicated it was on. The sound quality wasn’t the best, but he could still hear most of what was being said.

_“Your father helped. Just him being nearby helped. That was right after… well, your mum hurt me a bit, and he stayed with me to make sure I was okay. The nightmares weren’t so bad then. And then he left.”_

By the time Sherlock began declaring John as the ultimate father, John couldn’t see the monitor through the blurriness of his eyes. He blinked once, twice, feeling drops of moisture slip out and slide down into his hair.

Sherlock eventually fell silent, but John wasn’t able to fall asleep. Instead, he found himself reaching for the monitor and tucking it under his pillow.

That way, if Sherlock ended up talking again in the middle of the night, he’d hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked it, please let me know! Thanks for reading! <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick reminder: I'm American, so apologies for any mistakes when it comes to the names for things. I researched as best as I could.

The first thing that registered in John’s mind the next morning was how uncomfortable sleeping with a baby monitor under one’s pillow was. As he slowly drifted towards wakefulness, he pried his cramped fingers away from the monitor and pulled it out. It took him a moment to think of how it got to that spot, but when it hit him, his chest seized with an unidentifiable emotion.

 _Oh, Sherlock…_ he thought.

The next thing to cross his mind was how late it was. His mobile told him it was 8:34 AM. Even before Rosie, he never slept that late. The only times he could ever sleep past seven where right after cases that required long nights and few breaks.

He shoved himself up into a sitting position, gritting his teeth as his right shoulder was jostled. As was his habit, he glanced toward the other side of the bed. It was cold and undisturbed.

Turning his back on the empty space, he planted his feet firmly on the floor and listened. The house was quiet. Far too quiet for one that had a seven-month-old living there.

John was out of his room in two seconds flat and in Rosie’s only a handful more. Just as he’d feared, her room was empty.

“Sherlock?” he called. He waited for the blessed baritone to reply, but heard nothing. The silence overwhelmed each of his senses as he strained his ears for any sign of movement. He called Sherlock’s name again, and if there was an extra layer of anxiety in it, he couldn’t help it.

When he once again did not hear a reply, he went downstairs, his feet pounding each step with a ferocity that only a terrified parent could achieve. Perhaps they were just cuddling on the couch and they’d dozed off. It was a possibility.

A peek into the sitting room told him that possibility was wrong. It wasn’t until he dipped into the kitchen that he finally received some kind of answer.

_John,_

_I’ve gone out to do the shopping. I took Watson with me since you weren’t awake and I didn’t want to leave her alone. We’ll be back soon._

_\- SH_

The note was pinned to the fridge, right underneath one of Rosie’s baby photos. John breathed out a harsh sigh of relief as he read over it a second and third time. He should’ve realized there was a likely explanation, but he’d found that when he came to his baby girl, logic didn’t always factor into it.

“Bastard,” he mumbled, staring at those godforsaken initials. It didn’t have any real heat to it, but he was still irritated at having one of the worst scares of his life.

He fumbled his way through making coffee before sitting down at the table. He knew he should eat breakfast, but there was barely anything to eat, and he wasn’t hungry. Coffee would have to sustain him for now.

In hindsight, he understood why Sherlock left so early. It was very likely that he didn’t want to face John after the awkwardness they’d experienced the night before. It wasn’t every day your best friend admitted to having a quasi-affair with the sister you’d forgotten you had. It was bound to put a strain on things.

 _And he’s in love with you, you arse,_ John thought, his stomach clenching at the thought. _Is there any way you could’ve betrayed him more?_

This was all a terrible idea. He had hoped that having Sherlock so close would help them repair their friendship, but at that moment it was doing the exact opposite. They had been doing so well before John started to pry into Sherlock’s life and chose to reveal one of his own dark secrets that actually only ended up breaking Sherlock’s heart more.

 _What a great friend you are_. He had always been his harshest critic.

It was a good thing Sherlock would be gone for an hour or so. John didn’t know what he would do when he saw him again, or what he would say. What _could_ he say? No words seemed appropriate. They all felt false and awkward, and John just wanted Sherlock to stop _hurting_ , but he couldn’t figure out how. It was the worst feeling in the world.

The sound of his ringing mobile pulled him from his self-deprecating thoughts. Pulling it from the pocket of his sweatpants, he answered the call without checking to see who it was. Thankfully, it wasn’t the person he was dreading speaking to.

“Good morning!” Molly said brightly. John almost felt himself relax. “I thought I’d call and check in. See how things are doing.”

“They’re great,” John lied, trying to sound upbeat. Worrying Molly or dragging her into his messes were the last things he wanted to do.

But if there was one thing John should have learned after all these years, it was not to underestimate Molly Hooper.

“Funny, they don’t sound very great to me.”

John sighed and moved to pinch the bridge of his nose, then scowled when he remembered that his free hand really wasn’t free, but trapped in a sling. Another grievance to add to the long list.

“I just… can’t stop fucking up.” He winced. “Sorry. Pardon the language.”

“It’s okay,” Molly replied dismissively. “I’ve heard worse. What have you done now?”

John sighed and stared at his coffee. He couldn’t even drink it while being on the phone. It just wasn’t fair.

“I’ve asked Sherlock to move in while I recover,” he said. “Which was a colossally bad idea because we still can’t figure out how to act around each other.”

There was silence on the other end as Molly processed it. John waited patiently, taking deep breaths in order to steady himself.

“I mean,” she said finally, a bit hesitant. “You’ve already lived together. It can’t be that bad, can it?”

John snorted, though it wasn’t out of any real amusement. “He left early this morning and I’m actually grateful for it because I don’t know what to say to him.”

“Did you have a fight last night?”

“Not really… kind of? It wasn’t like we shouted at each other or anything. But it got awkward and personal and I think he’s upset with me.”

“Sherlock? Upset with you? That doesn’t seem possible.”

John leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out as far as possible. He wished he could just melt into it and disappear from the world. It seemed easier than existing. “I can assure you it’s very, very possible. I’m not perfect, Molly. God knows he deserves to get angry with me, after everything I’ve done to him.”

Molly’s voice was gentle, and it made John want to yell. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think it is. What do you think you’ve done to him to make him upset right now?”

He was almost going to say it didn’t matter, or it was personal, so he didn’t want to tell her. But then he realized that maybe it was good that she knew. Maybe then she wouldn’t think him better than he was.

“I cheated on Mary with his sister,” he said bluntly, almost relishing the way the words fell from his lips. He was destroying his image. It felt amazing.

The silence went on for a longer span of time. John could almost imagine the look of disbelief on her face. When Molly finally spoke, she sounded confused.

“You mean… the sister he didn’t know about?”

“Yep. She sought me out, and we started texting each other. I didn’t actually know she was related to him, though.” _Would that have changed anything?_ he wondered. The uncertainty made him a bit sick.

“But was that all? The texting?”

There was a pang in his chest when he answered. “Yes. That was all.”

Molly was quiet again. John found himself looking toward the cabinet above the stove, where he’d started keeping his liquor. Having some scotch before 10 AM was probably a bad idea, but damn if it didn’t sound appealing.

“How did Sherlock react?”

He recalled the way Sherlock had avoided his gaze last night before leaving the room with Rosie. They hadn’t spoken after that. Sherlock had put Rosie to bed, then disappeared into the guest room. John was too afraid to knock on his door and say good night.

“He got distant. And a bit callous,” said John. “He tried to tell me I did nothing wrong.”

He could practically see the frown on Molly’s face. “It sounds like you didn’t. You just texted her. And that doesn’t seem very callous to me, if he was trying to make you feel better.”

John stood up from his chair and started pacing the kitchen. Every time he passed, the fridge, he tried not to stare at the pinned note. He wished, not for the first time, that his right arm was stuck in the sling. He wanted to stretch.

“He still walked away,” he said, his feet tracing Sherlock’s path from the night before. “In the end. He was disgusted with me, I know it.”

“John,” Molly said, her voice heavy with sympathy. John gritted his teeth. “He isn’t disgusted with you. He just probably didn’t know what to say. You know comforting people isn’t his strong suit.”

The rational part of John’s brain knew this was true and most likely the reason Sherlock walked out. But the other part, the part that seemed to take pleasure in tearing him down, told a different story.

“When he comes home,” she continued, “talk to him. Do not ignore this or brush it off. You two cannot keep running from these things.”

“We’re not running,” John said. “That’s the whole reason why he’s staying here. So we can’t run.”

“Then there you go. Make this a priority for when he gets back. Work through this with him, not me.”

John took a deep breath through his nose. Like most things, she was right. He’d known this from the moment they started talking.

“You’re amazing,” he said. “You know that?”

“I think so, yeah.” She sounded so genuine, too. Not self-centered, but like it was something she was finally coming to terms with. “Thank you. And keep me posted.”

“I will. Thanks, Molly.”

He hung up soon after that and was left with an empty house. With his left hand now free, he could very well reach up above the stove and grab the bottle that was hiding behind the cabinet door.

Instead, he fetched the morning paper and sat down with his now-lukewarm coffee, his gaze occasionally straying to the paper stuck to the fridge.

Sherlock’s initials there didn’t even seem out of place.

<><><> 

“Okay,” Sherlock said, scrolling through the list he’d hastily typed up on his phone. “Next we need milk, tea, and bread. And possibly some kind of vegetables.” He looked down at Rosie. “Does your father like vegetables? And if so, what kind?”

Rosie merely blinked up at him. He huffed out a sigh.

“Of course, how would you know? You’re far too young to start tracking his eating habits.”

The fact that Sherlock himself was plenty old enough to do the same and once had ample opportunity to do so was not lost on him, but he chose not to dwell on it. He certainly did not need another reminder that he didn’t know his best friend as well as he thought he did.

As it turned out, navigating a cart through a supermarket with a baby strapped to one’s chest was quite difficult. Sherlock had already bumped into several shelves and a few fellow shoppers, most of whom must have been mindful of Rosie’s presence and chose not to shout at him. It had only taken him two and a half minutes to decide he absolutely loathed grocery shopping and prayed he would never have to do it again. Of course, he knew that the odds of him returning to this very store in a week’s time were very likely, and it only made his bad mood worse.

His cart was half-filled with random food items he was mostly certain John liked. There were some biscuits, eggs, soups, cheeses, and pastas, along with an array of other things. He’d debated with himself for a while in front of the cereals before snatching up one he thought he might’ve seen in Baker Street once and adding it to the mix. Grouped in one corner of the cart were a series of canned foods he considered acceptable, and he’d made sure to grab several foods he knew Rosie liked. He had been there for nearly an hour, stressing over every decision, and he was more than ready to be done.

“He can’t get upset with me if I’ve gotten the wrong items,” he told Rosie as he turned the cart in the direction of the milk. “He knows I don’t pay attention to these things, and he didn’t give me a list of his own.”

He looked down at Rosie and found her staring up at him, as though transfixed by his voice. It wasn’t the first time he’d caught her looking at him like that, yet he still found it fascinating.

“I know,” he said. “I didn’t give him the opportunity to write out a list. But really, I would have been foolish to pass up this chance to do the shopping. I told him I would last night.” He frowned as he wove his way around a display of canned fruits. “Though I am seriously regretting it.”

Rosie made a gurgling sound and yanked on his scarf. The noise he made could only be described as an undignified squawk. Quickly untangling her fingers from the scarf, he fixed her with his best disapproving stare.

“No, Watson. We do not choke people with their scarfs.” He paused, contemplating. “Unless that person is a criminal or an idiot. Then it’s acceptable.”

Rosie giggled and reached for the scarf once more. He unknotted and pulled it off, shoving it into his pocket.

“Do I _look_ like a criminal or an idiot to you? We really must work on your observational skills. I’d hate for this to become a habit.”

Sherlock sped through the rest of his list and steered them to the checkout line, desperate to be out of this godforsaken store. When deciding to get the shopping done early, he had planned to draw it out for a long as possible so that he could put off going back to John’s house, but he underestimated how much he despised it. The people, the endless amounts of foods, the _decisions_ one had to make. It was all hateful, and Sherlock wanted to be done with it. Facing John was a better choice than spending another moment there.

His gut twisted at the thought of going back. There was a chance he was making a big deal out of nothing, but he didn’t really think he was. After the way things had gone the night before, there was no way there wouldn’t be some residual awkwardness in the air. He just wasn’t ready to confront it. Every time things got tense between them, he feared it would be the end. The end of the only thing he held dear.

He just wasn’t ready for that.

The man in front of him in line was taking _forever_ to buy several bags of dog food. Sherlock tapped his foot as he watched him fumble through his wallet, no doubt struggling to find his card. In two seconds, Sherlock was going to snap.

“Excuse me?”

It took him a moment to realize someone was speaking to him, and even then he only noticed because Rosie was peering over his shoulder. He turned to find an elderly woman smiling kindly at him, a shopping basket clutched in her hands.

“Yes?” He tried to be polite for Rosie’s sake, but there was an excellent chance his exasperation already seeped through into that one word. The likelihood of this going well was slim.

“I just wanted to say how beautiful your daughter is.” Her eyes twinkled sweetly, like her very words hadn’t just punched Sherlock in the stomach.

“My…” He dropped his gaze to Rosie, who had lost interest in the woman and was back to focusing on him. Her chubby hands reached up, clearly in search of his scarf. She whined when she couldn’t find it.

“I noticed the two of you around the store,” the woman continued, completely oblivious to Sherlock’s internal breakdown. “You make such a lovely pair.”

Sherlock’s mouth was dry. He was frozen. He needed to get out.

“Th-thank you,” he said, cursing himself for the stutter. The man in front of him finally finished paying and left the store. Sherlock turned from the woman and stepped up to the cashier, going through the transaction on autopilot. He’d bought way too many things. This getaway was not nearly as speedy as he needed it to be.

After what felt like years, thanks to the woman’s constant smile as she watched Rosie, he finished paying and gathered all the bags in his arms. He managed a terse nod toward the woman before fleeing the store.

 _Your daughter._ Your _daughter._ The words wouldn’t stop echoing in his mind.

It was an innocent mistake. It wasn’t like that woman knew the situation. How could she? She wasn’t like him. She couldn’t read an entire person’s life through the clothes they wore or the dirt on their shoes. And, really, it was logical to assume the child nestled against his chest was his own. It was unlikely he would be carrying around someone else’s kid.

Except that was exactly what he was doing. Because Rosie wasn’t his daughter.

By some miracle, he managed to get all the bags loaded into John’s car without harming Rosie. He got her settled into her car seat, making sure she was perfectly secure. Before he shut the back door though, he hesitated. Rosie tilted her head to the side, an almost perfect imitation of her father.

He took his scarf out of his pocket and offered it to her. She squealed in delight and took it from him. Within seconds, it was in her mouth.

Sherlock smiled and got into the front seat.

<><><> 

When Sherlock and Rosie returned, John was sitting on the couch pretending to watch a Bond film. His eyes flicked from the television to the door, where Sherlock was trying to make a stealthy entrance and failing miserably.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, a touch awkwardly. “We’re back.”

“I can see that,” John replied. He looked Sherlock over quickly, resolutely ignoring the way Rosie was playing with Sherlock’s scarf. “Did you actually buy anything?”

“Yes. It’s all in the car.” He nodded toward Rosie. “Just wanted to bring this one in.”

“Oh.” John shifted on the couch and held his left arm out. “I can hold her.”

Sherlock nodded and crossed over to him. John held his breath as Sherlock bent and nestled Rosie into his arm. This gave John a perfect view of Sherlock’s bare neck, unprotected by his scarf. The sight made John swallow harshly.

Sherlock straightened and walked back outside. John watched him go before looking down at his daughter.

“Did you have a good time, love?” Rosie grinned up at him and waved Sherlock’s scarf around. It looked damp in several places, leading John to believe she’d had it in her mouth.

“Did you steal that from him?” he asked teasingly, tapping her nose. Rosie giggled.

“No,” Sherlock said as he reentered the house. “I gave it to her.”

John tore his gaze away from Rosie and nearly let his jaw drop. Sherlock was laden with so many bags that he didn’t know how he managed to get everything, plus Rosie, from the store to the car. Sherlock didn’t pay attention to his shock as he strode into the kitchen, setting all the bags onto the table.

“Is all that for here?”

“Of course it is. Why, is it too much?” There was a hint of worry in Sherlock’s voice that John found to be incredibly endearing. He tightened his hold on Rosie as he stood up and joined Sherlock in the kitchen.

“No, it’s fine,” he said. “Thank you for getting it all.”

Sherlock was watching him closely, as if checking to see if he was sincere. Then he nodded and turned his attention to the white bags clustered on the table. He reached into one and pulled out two cans of beans. Spinning on his heels, he approached the cabinets, halting about a foot away. John couldn’t see his face, but he was certain he could picture the look of slight befuddlement that Sherlock was probably wearing.

“Second cabinet on the left,” John said. Sherlock glanced at him before putting the beans in the proper cabinet. He returned to the bags and pulled out a loaf of bread. This time, he looked up at John, a silent question in his eyes.

“On the counter,” John said. “By the toaster.”

For the next five minutes, the only talking that occurred was John telling Sherlock where each food item went. There was still a conversation to be had, and they both knew it, but it was easier to put it off. John focused on the task at hand, getting so caught up in it that he didn’t realize they were done until Sherlock was clearing the empty bags off the table.

 _Now or never,_ John thought. He bounced Rosie while he tried to figure out the best way to start the conversation. He’d had hours to do so, but nothing came to him. Eventually he just gave up and prayed that when the moment came, he’d know what to say.

Only now the moment was here, and he was still grappling for words. Then Sherlock spoke, throwing John completely.

“I’m sorry I took Watson without checking with you first.” Sherlock took his note from that morning off the fridge and crumpled it up. John almost wished he’d left it there. “I didn’t want to wait.”

“It’s okay,” John said, shifting Rosie in his arm. “I figured she was with you.” He left out the part where he’d had a massive panic beforehand. Sherlock didn’t need the guilt.

“Still,” Sherlock insisted. “She isn’t my daughter. I have no right to just take her whenever I see fit.”

John’s brows furrowed a bit. He couldn’t help but feel like there was another reason behind his words, a reason bigger than him just feeling bad for taking Rosie without John’s permission. It was in the way he spoke.

“I asked you here to help take care of her,” said John. “That’s what you did today. I don’t have a problem with it.”

“But I stepped out of line.”

John frowned and walked closer to him. Sherlock watched him wearily, the note still clutched in his fist. That, plus the tense set of his jaw, made John ache to touch him in some way, but he couldn’t even if he was allowed.

“You’re not in trouble, Sherlock. I’m not going to yell at you or forbid you from ever taking Rosie out again. It’s okay. Really. You can relax.”

Sherlock still seemed uncertain, but his shoulders drooped ever so slightly. John gave him a little smile, hoping he would calm down even further. When he didn’t, John prepared to say something else, but once again, Sherlock beat him to it.

“I’m also sorry for how I acted last night,” said Sherlock. “You confided in me, and I didn’t react fairly. Clearly this is something that has been giving you a great deal of stress, and I brushed it off without talking it through like you might have wanted. For that, I am sorry.”

John honestly couldn’t recall the last time Sherlock had ever apologized twice in the same day, which was why he was so dumbfounded now. The second apology was the most surprising, considering how much John had been blaming _himself_ for everything. It made his head spin as he tried to align his thoughts with what he was being told now.

“It’s – that’s – it’s okay,” he stuttered. “I’m okay. Really.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, and John looked away.

“You think I’m repulsed by what you told me,” Sherlock said, and his voice was so soft that John wanted to cry.

“Aren’t you?”

He was staring so intently at the floor that he didn’t notice how close Sherlock had gotten until his chin was being tilted up and he was looking into Sherlock’s eyes. His breath got caught somewhere in his chest.

“No,” Sherlock said. “I’m not. What you did wasn’t a bad thing. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t the worst thing you could have done. You were just going after what you wanted.”

“But I shouldn’t have wanted it,” John rasped. “I had a wife. And Rosie had just been born. I should’ve been here.”

“Weren’t you?” Sherlock tilted his head to the side. “You said it was just texting.”

“I mean, yes, it was, but – mentally, I wasn’t here. Not always." He tore his gaze away from Sherlock and looked down at Rosie, still gnawing on Sherlock’s precious scarf. Sherlock took a step back. “I was a terrible husband, and a terrible father. I didn’t deserve them. I still don’t.”

“Stop it.” John couldn’t help but wince at the sudden fierceness in Sherlock’s voice. “You have made mistakes in your past, certainly, but everyone has. There is not a single person on this earth who is completely perfect. You are a better man than you think you are.”

John opened his mouth to object, to tell Sherlock how wrong he was, but Sherlock cut him off before he could get even a syllable out.

“I’ve seen the worst people this world has to offer,” he said, his eyes burning holes into John’s head. “Sadists, psychopaths, _monsters_. And if you, for one second, think you’re like them, then you truly know nothing about yourself.”

John spoke quickly, desperate to get a word in. “I’m not trying to say I’m like Moriarty, or anything, but I’m not a good man. Would a good man want to cheat on his wife? Would he abandon his daughter? Beat his best friend?” He was positive Rosie was the only thing grounding him right now. “Why does everyone say I’m a good person when all I’ve done is show them the exact opposite?”

It was quiet in the kitchen. John almost felt victorious, because Sherlock didn’t immediately respond. He’d rendered him speechless. It was for the best. People needed to stop thinking the best of him. He had never been anyone’s golden boy, and he didn’t want to be. Golden boys didn’t do the things he’d done.

“Do you remember,” Sherlock said, breaking the silence, “the time when I was arrested by Scotland Yard for my alleged involvement in the kidnapping of two children?”

John snorted. “You were hardly arrested. You were handcuffed and that’s it. You got away.”

“Only because you got yourself arrested too,” reminded Sherlock. “Do you remember why?”

John closed his eyes, getting lost in the memory. “The Chief Superintendent called you a weirdo.”

“I have been called many names over the years,” Sherlock said. “No one has _ever_ defended me like you did that night.”

His voice was gentle once more. John opened his eyes and stared at the ground. He shifted Rosie in his arm again, realizing he was going to have to put her down soon.

“I bet Lestrade has.”

“No.” Sherlock was vehement. “He’s told off a few people, but he’s never stood up to someone like the _Chief Superintendent_ for me.”

“I punched him,” John said bluntly. “That’s not really a good thing.”

“That’s not the point. You asked why people say you’re a good person, and I gave you an example.” John took a deep breath and looked up. Sherlock’s expression was open, hopeful, and pleading all at once. It knocked the air from John’s lungs. “I hadn’t had a friend in so long, and then you came along and became the very best one a person could have. You don’t have to prove to me right now that you’re a good man because I already _know_ you are. I’ve always known.”

Tears pricked John’s eyes, and he swallowed. His arm yelled at him to put his daughter down, so he quickly set her down in her high chair. It gave him the chance to hide his face.

“After everything I’ve done to you…” John said hoarsely, surreptitiously rubbing his eyes. “How can you –”

“Enough of that,” Sherlock interrupted. John heard rather than saw him getting out some food, most likely for Rosie. He sniffed and moved out of the way, still keeping his back to Sherlock. “I’ve forgiven you. We can’t keep letting the past drown us. Moving forward is our only option. It’s the only way we’ll get better.”

John took a fortifying breath and turned around. Sherlock set a small bowl of cereal down on Rosie’s tray and met his gaze. There was no judgement or anger or even fear in his eyes. There was only determination and hope.

“You think we can do it?” John asked, slowly unclenching his left hand. Sherlock’s eyes flicked to the movement before going back up. He nodded.

“If we both want it enough, yes.”

“And… you still consider me to be your best friend?”

Sherlock’s lips parted. “I never stopped.”

John swallowed and didn’t dare look away from Sherlock as he gave a tight nod. Somehow, the movement made him feel lighter.

“If this is going to work,” he ventured, “we’re going to need to be open with each other. That’s the way I see it. No more hiding, no more secrets. We’re doing it together, or not at all.”

His words felt like they were about something far more serious than a friendship, but he chose not to dwell on that right now. He could only focus on so much, and his fraying friendship was what was most important. It had always been that, even when he was married. He realized that had to mean something, but, again, not the main problem right now.

“Together,” Sherlock affirmed.

“If something is bothering you, or hurting you, you’ve got to tell me. Okay?”

Sherlock nodded. “The same rule applies to you. You can’t keep things locked up inside.”

 _Easier said than done,_ John thought. _But for you… for you, I’ll try._

He was starting to think he had some serious soul-searching to do.

“This feels like we’re making a pact, or something,” said John, attempting to lighten the mood. It worked, for Sherlock’s lips quirked up.

“Isn’t that what friends do?” John snorted.

“When they’re seven, maybe.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. “That’s roughly the age I was when I had my last friend, so perhaps my ideas of friendship are a bit outdated.”

This bit of information was surprising and intriguing all at once. John licked his lips.

“Sounds like there’s a story there.”

Sherlock glanced at him before looking away. “There is, I suppose.” He paused, and John knew just how much effort it was taking him to say the next few words. “I could tell you it sometime. If you wanted to hear it.”

John nodded, unable to stop the small smile that was spreading. “I do.” Sherlock’s answering smile was all he needed to know they were going to be okay, as long as they both put in a little work.

If it kept that madman in his life, John would do anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really sorry for the delay in posting this. There's an explanation at the end of the chapter if you're curious! I promise the next one will be up sooner.

“I have an idea,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, Christ,” was John’s reply.

“It’s not what you think. I believe you’ll approve of this.”

John leaned back against the couch, cocking an eyebrow. “Okay. Go on.”

Sherlock looked away from John only to make sure Rosie hadn’t crawled too far away. He was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, and was supposed to be playing with her, but she was far more interested in testing her boundaries. Her latest fixation was the stairs, and it was Sherlock’s job to make sure she didn’t attempt to climb them.

It was a job he took quite seriously, if he was being honest.

“We should go to the park,” said Sherlock, turning back to John after ensuring Rosie was still several feet away from the stairs. “Get some fresh air, or whatever it is people get when they participate in physical activities.”

John’s expression was an odd mixture of shocked and – dare Sherlock think it – amazed. His mouth had fallen open ever so slightly, and Sherlock endeavored not to look at it so much.

“Could you please try not to look so surprised every time I suggest something? It got old the first time.”

John shook his head, as if clearing it. “Sorry. I just still can’t believe… well, I can’t believe how accommodating you’re being.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. He sent a cursory look over his shoulder to check on Rosie’s progress (getting within the danger zone, but still safe) before responding.

“Isn’t that the nice thing to do when someone is recovering from a terrible incident?”

John snorted. “When have you ever been concerned with nice things?”

“It only happens when I’m around you.”

The simple admission fell from him easily, and he focused on adjusting his rolled-up shirtsleeves to avoid seeing John’s reaction.

It had been two days since they made their pact to be more open with each other, and things had been, Sherlock had to admit, quite nice. There had not been any more deep and probing conversations, though he suspected they were on the horizon, but there also hadn’t been any fights, which was a relief. Their familiar banter was slowly returning to them with each moment spent in each other’s company, and Sherlock had never been more grateful.

Just the night before, they had been in front of the telly watching some godawful singing competition that John said he’d developed a bit of an attachment to not long after Mary’s death. Sherlock had tensed at the mention of Mary, but John said nothing more about it. Instead, he merely sent Sherlock a small smile and turned back to the show. It had taken Sherlock another two minutes before he could relax, but once he did, the night had been quite enjoyable.

“Oh, this one’s my favorite,” John had said when a portly man stepped up to the microphone. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“You have a favorite? My god, things have gotten worse than I thought.”

Since he was sitting on John’s right, he was spared the smack on the arm he was sure he would have gotten otherwise. Instead all he got was a glare that was tinged with amusement.

“It’s entertaining.”

“Listening to people butcher songs is entertaining for you?” He adjusted his hold on Rosie, who was in his lap and growing more and more tired by the moment. Her head rested on his chest, and his large hand stroked her back with a tenderness he once thought he was not capable of.

John kept looking at his hand, tracking its movements along Rosie’s back. He never looked for more than a few seconds, but it was frequent enough that Sherlock knew it meant something.

“Why do you care?” John asked, his eyes on the screen at that particular moment. “You don’t like music.”

Sherlock scoffed. “I love music.” He watched Rosie’s eyelids droop ever lower.

“Not this type. Last time I checked, you don’t listen to the radio.”

Sherlock traced Rosie’s fragile spine. “I could have started in the past few months.”

John turned his head and looked him in the eye. He was grinning. “Not bloody likely.”

Sherlock felt his lips curve into a little smile. On the telly, the man was belting out a particularly powerful note, and distantly Sherlock could concede that he had a decent voice. Of course he was John’s favorite.

“She’s asleep,” said John, quietly. Sherlock blinked, then looked down. Rosie slept against him, her face peaceful and perfect.

“I’ll take her upstairs,” Sherlock murmured. John nodded, and his eyes flicked down to his sling with a look of pure loathing. Carefully holding her to his body, Sherlock stood from the couch and carried her to the stairs. Just before he disappeared up them, he saw John look away quickly, fixing his gaze resolutely on the telly.

It had been such an uneventful, simple night, and yet Sherlock couldn’t think of a recent moment where he had felt that content. It was almost like the nights he and John used to share at Baker Street, nights spent with takeout and crap telly. Nights where Sherlock wished he could tuck his feet underneath John’s thighs, or lay his head on his chest to hear his heartbeat….

_Enough of that,_ he scolded himself. Things were getting better. No use ruining them.

“So,” John said, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Are we really going to the park? Because if we go, I don’t want to hear a single complaint from you.”

“Why would I complain?” Sherlock picked himself off the floor and hurried across the room. Rosie had her tiny hands on the bottommost step. He reached down and swiftly picked her up, settling her on his hip. She giggled, thrilled with their game.

“You complain about everything,” John pointed out.

“Not _every_ -”

“Everything you don’t like or want to do.” John raised an eyebrow, challenging him. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“If I recall, I was the one who suggested this. That would imply I want to do it.”

John stared at him for a moment longer, gauging his sincerity, before nodding.

“Okay. You can either put Rosie in the pushchair or the carrier. When we get there, she’ll probably want to run around in the grass, which is fine. We just need to keep an eye on her.”

Sherlock bounced Rosie up and down lightly. She kept looking toward the stairs. “That should be simple enough. We do that all the time here.”

He looked back to the couch to see John staring at him with a fond expression.

“Yes, we do,” John said. “All the time.” He put a slight emphasis on the word “we,” and Sherlock couldn’t help but think back to that woman in the store, the one who thought Rosie was his daughter.

_Enough,_ he chastised himself again. _You can’t keep doing this._

_No matter how nice it feels._

<><><> 

John couldn’t remember the last time he had taken Rosie to the park. It was most certainly when Mary had still been alive, but even then he couldn’t quite pin it down. There had been so much going on at the time that it was hard to say when they had the opportunity to do so. It didn’t seem fair, really, that Rosie had been deprived of nice outings like this because of her parents’ drama, but that was the life she had been born into.

“Something’s bothering you,” Sherlock said as they walked. He pushed Rosie along in her pushchair as John walked beside them. John hated feeling so useless, being unable to push his daughter himself.  It was supposed to be _his_ job.

Though, if he was stuck on the sidelines, then he could at least enjoy the sight of Sherlock pushing the pushchair as though he was a nanny or…

“What makes you say that?” John said, steadfastly refusing to explore that line of thought. It was becoming harder and harder to ignore, but now wasn’t the time to let himself reflect on it.

Sherlock tore his gaze from the sidewalk in front of them to give John a condescending look. John scowled at him.

“Yeah, okay, you prat,” he said.

“We’re not supposed to be hiding things, remember?” Sherlock pointed out lightly. John looked up, blowing out a deep breath. The bloody pact. He knew it was a good thing, but opening up didn’t come easily to him.

It took him another minute or so to find the right words and to pluck up the courage. Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t speak once, and John felt a gentle warmth in his stomach.

“I was just thinking about how unlucky Rosie is to have gotten Mary and I as parents.” He paused, frowning. “I mean, obviously Mary isn’t really her parent anymore, but she’s still got me, and I don’t know if that’s necessarily a good thing.”

He was aware of Sherlock looking at him, but he kept his eyes forward, refusing to see what was in those damn eyes. When Sherlock finally spoke, he said the last thing John expected to hear.

“You really do have the worst self-esteem, don’t you?” He skillfully navigated the pushchair around someone’s trash bins. “I thought we discussed this the other day. You’re not a bad person, John, and you’re certainly not a bad father.”

John sniffed a little. “That’s – this isn’t the same thing.”

“Isn’t it? You said two days ago that you aren’t a good man, and you used the way you’ve been treating Rosamund as an example.” Sherlock glanced at him. “It’s getting rather repetitive.”

John kicked a rock and watched it skitter across the pavement before him. “It’s not like I can just turn it off,” he admitted quietly. “It’s an automatic thing. Always has been.”

Now he _really_ couldn’t look at Sherlock. They were nearly at the park, so he simply sped up a bit and hurried across the street. The green lawn stretched out before him, and he let out a small sigh of relief. The focus would be put on Rosie, and this conversation could be averted.

The sky was a pale gray, with the sun trying valiantly to poke through the cloud cover. Mothers watched over their children as they played in the grass, and dog owners kept an eye on their pups as they bounded around. Everyone was taking advantage of the unseasonably warm day, and John had to admit he was happy to be amongst them. He hadn’t been out in public since he’d been shot. He missed the fresh air.

He could hear Rosie babbling behind him, eager to get out too. Turning, he saw Sherlock had guided the pushchair to the side of the walkway and was in the middle of picking her up. She gazed at Sherlock with such adoration that John had to look away, his throat tight.

“You want to run to Daddy?” Sherlock asked. He set Rosie on the ground and made sure she was steady on her feet before letting go. John noticed he’d placed her on the grass instead of the pavement, and he felt the warmth in his belly grow.

Rosie lifted her little arms up and toddled over to John. He smiled, unable to resist, and knelt down to greet her.

“Just look at you,” he murmured once she crashed into his body. He angled himself so she hit his left side, and he brought his arm up to hold her. “Soon you’ll be walking all over this city without my help. I won’t be able to keep up with you.”

The thought made him unbearably sad, so he pushed it down. With a kiss to her cheek, he turned her back around so she was facing Sherlock.

“Go on back to Uncle Sherlock, love.” He didn’t need to tell her twice. The sentence was barely out of his mouth before she was off again, right back to Sherlock. She let out a cry of what John assumed (hoped) was happiness before she threw her arms around his legs. Sherlock looked stunned for a brief moment before scooping her up and settling her against his hip.

“I told you,” said John. “She adores you. You’re one of her favorite people.”

“She doesn’t know many people,” Sherlock replied, gently bouncing her. She kicked her legs out, and he set her back down immediately. She took off like a shot, running around with the kind of exuberance only a child could possess.

“She could know everyone on this earth,” John said, focusing on Rosie, “and you would still be one of her favorite people.”

Even over the sounds of the park, he heard Sherlock’s small inhale of surprise.

“You can’t possibly know that,” Sherlock said once he’d composed himself. “That’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous is you not knowing how important you are to her.” He forced himself to look up at Sherlock. Sherlock’s face was unreadable. “She lights up when you walk into the room, she reaches for you when you get close. You give her your complete attention and treat her with the utmost care. I really don’t understand how you find this hard to believe.” He shrugged, being mindful of his injury. “You’re her godfather. You’ll always be important to her.”

John had thought that would make Sherlock happy, but he swore he saw something shutter in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Godfather,” Sherlock said. “Yes, of course.”

John frowned. “Sherlock –”

Rosie came to a stop in front of him, stopping him from finishing his sentence. She had a fistful of grass in her hand. Reaching up, John gently pried it from her and, with a small, hastily put on smile, rubbed the ends of the grass against her cheek. Rosie squealed with delight and batted the grass away. He then drew the strands down her nose. She clapped her hands together excitedly.

The game continued for another minute before Rosie lost interest and darted away again. John was thankful, because his knees were beginning to demand he get up. He started to rise, but lost his balance. What’s worse, he lost his balance on his right side. The image of him landing on his hurt shoulder flashed in his mind, and he threw out his left arm in a desperate attempt to stop it from happening.

A hand clamped down on his left bicep, and he felt himself be steadied. He looked up and saw Sherlock standing at his side, concern showing in his eyes.

Sherlock started to pull him up by his arm, then stopped. Slowly, almost achingly so, his hand slid down John’s arm to his hand, where his long fingers intertwined with John’s. John couldn’t breathe. With a slight tug, Sherlock helped John stand.

It was only when he was fully upright that John realized how close they were. If he moved even the tiniest bit forward, he would be pressed to Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s verdigris eyes watched him intently, and John almost felt entranced by them. They were dizzying.

Then Sherlock let go of his hand. John let out the breath he was holding in a whoosh and clenched his hand.

“Thank you,” he said, aware it was far too delayed. “For, um, that.”

Sherlock said nothing, just nodded. He returned to watching Rosie, and John wondered if the faint blush on Sherlock’s cheeks was from the wind or something else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanation time: 
> 
> When I posted the last chapter, I was nearing the end of my school year. Finals took up a lot of my time, and then I was home for two weeks, but I was fried and couldn't focus on much. Then, mid-May, I went to Greece for a month-long school program. I'm currently studying to be a screenwriter, and this trip was for screenwriters so it was PERFECT. It was THE most amazing experience of my entire life, but I had to put all of my creative energy into my project for the class. Near the end of the program, I made the worst mistake ever and accidentally deleted all the notes I had for this story. Thankfully, I had my immediate plans worked out on my head, but I really need to go back to the drawing board and map some things out. This put a damper on things, which is why this update is coming so long after I've gotten home. There you have it, that's all there is to it. I hope it all made sense, as I'm writing this at almost 3am and I'm quite tired.
> 
> For those who have stuck around and been patient, thank you SO MUCH! I'm so grateful for you guys. I promise I won't let things go this long again. And I promise this story won't be left unfinished. 
> 
> Much love. <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gasps* Could it really be another chapter? Finally? 
> 
> Thank you for all your patience, I hope you enjoy this one!

The days passed. John continued to heal. Rosie continued to grow. Sherlock continued to drift between being happier than he’d been in a while and becoming overwhelmed with heartbreak.

The heartbreak was something he’d been living with for a while, but in the span of time when John hadn’t been living with him, it was almost manageable. He could push it down and pretend it didn’t exist, that it didn’t matter. All of that had been ruined the moment he started living with John again.

It was just so _hard_ seeing John wince when he jostled his shoulder too hard and knowing he couldn’t wrap him up in his arms and comfort him. It was _hard_ watching John get all soft and – quite frankly – adorable when Rosie beamed up at him, knowing he wasn’t really a part of their world. It was _hard_ catching John as he first stumbled out of his room in the morning, with his hair rumpled from sleep and his eyes beautifully bleary.

It was just _hard._

And yet, it was an exquisite pain. Because as long as he felt it, it meant he was close to John and close to Rosie, and it was almost like what they had before Mary, before The Fall. Before Sherlock ruined any chance he might have had.

He tried to ignore that last part. If he even began to let himself think he had actually had a chance with John, then he feared he would truly fall apart. It was as he said to John. They needed to move forward, to stop being bogged down by the past.

This meant, on principle, that they must live in the moment, and that was precisely what Sherlock was trying to do. For someone with a brain that worked like his did, that could be difficult at times, but he was truly trying. He told himself that if he remained present at all times and avoided getting lost in his head, he could store all these precious memories of John and Rosie away for when John was fully healed and he would have to return to Baker Street.

(It was a day that was approaching faster than he wanted it too. That was another thing he didn’t want to dwell upon.)

Take, for example, the perfectly beautiful moment that occurred three days after their visit to the park. The little bit of nice weather they had experienced vanished, replaced by thunderstorms. Dark clouds covered the sky as rain fell in sheets. Every so often, a big _boom_ from above had Rosie burrowing under Sherlock’s arm.

“It’s nothing to be concerned about, Watson,” he informed her. “That noise you hear is just a byproduct of the lighting. When lightning strikes –”

He trailed off here, for John had come downstairs. There was a trace of amusement in John’s eyes, and it made Sherlock frown.

“What?”

“Nothing,” replied John. He joined Sherlock and Rosie on the couch, his amusement spreading to his lips as he grinned. “She just can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

Sherlock huffed and adjusted his hold on Rosie. There was another deafening _bang_ from up above. Rosie whimpered and pressed herself closer to him. John’s expression softened in concern, and he stretched his left hand out to rub her back.

“She’s scared,” Sherlock pointed out needlessly. “A common way to eradicate fears is to explain the reality behind them.”

John quirked an eyebrow up. “Yeah, but she’s barely one. She doesn’t get it.”

“Alright, fine,” grumbled Sherlock. “I won’t say anymore.” He’d already known she didn’t understand, of course, but he hated seeing her in distress.

John was watching them thoughtfully. “On second thought, go ahead.”

“No no, there’s no point to it, as you said.”

“But there is,” John insisted. Sherlock stared at him blankly. John rolled his eyes. “She likes the sound of your voice, Sherlock. It soothes her.”

Sherlock looked down at Rosie. Her face was still hidden, so he could only see the top of her head. “That seems highly unlikely. I haven’t been around her enough for her to associate anything with my voice.”

“You’ve been here for a week,” said John. “That’s a decent amount of time, don’t you think?”

Sherlock scoffed, though he knew John had a point. “Regardless. My voice isn’t soothing.”

“Yes, it is,” John said with such certainty that Sherlock wondered if he was still talking about Rosie. John coughed. “Would you just keep talking to her?”

Tightening his arms around her, Sherlock proceeded to lecture Rosie on the cause of thunder. When he finished that, he moved onto lightning. The sky still lit up and the house still shook, but as he spoke, Rosie appeared to be less concerned with what was happening outside and more enthralled by what Sherlock was saying. Her blue eyes were fixated on him, her mouth hanging open slightly. Sherlock began to find it harder to speak, because his throat was getting tight.

_Sentiment,_ he thought with less derision than he had hoped for.

“See?” John’s voice was so soft it could barely be heard over the thunder. It still made Sherlock’s head swim. “She likes hearing you talk.”

Sherlock forced himself to laugh. “She must be amongst the few.”

That got a chuckle out of John. Sherlock’s lips curved up.

The next crack of thunder seemed to shake the windows in their panes. Rosie, apparently having lost her sense of comfort, began crying anew. Simultaneously, John and Sherlock shushed her. They both looked at each other, their eyes meeting at the same moment.

“D-da,” a plaintive, little voice said. John’s eyes widened. Sherlock tore his gaze away from John and looked down.

Rosie was looking at John, her little arm held aloft, her hand reaching for him. John stared at her, dumbfounded. “Da,” she repeated, more insistent this time. Her face was streaked with tears, and her bottom lip wobbled.

“I think she wants you,” murmured Sherlock. Without waiting for John to acknowledge him, he shifted and transferred Rosie over to John’s uninjured side. John circled his left arm around her, forming a protective barrier. She nestled against his chest, momentarily content once more.

“She,” said John, his eyes fixed on his daughter, “she just said – Sherlock, that was her first word.”

“I know that,” Sherlock said flippantly, even though he was celebrating inside. “It really was only a matter of time before this happened, considering the rate she’s been developing at.”

John turned his gaze to him, and Sherlock nearly lost his breath at the glassy, but overjoyed look in John’s eyes. He smiled, unable to contain it.

“Her first word,” John marveled. “My little Rosie, talking already.” He pressed a kiss to Rosie’s head. “Where is the time going?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please, she’s only managed one syllable. That’s hardly the same as forming sentences.”

John glared at him, but there was no heat in it. “I’m trying to savor this moment, thanks.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t get too preoccupied with the future,” Sherlock retorted. Now John was the one who rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Whatever, you git.”

“Careful,” said Sherlock. “Otherwise her next word will be ‘git’.”

John laughed. Rosie peeked her head out from his chest and grinned. Sherlock automatically leaned over and brushed a large hand over her head. Those types of actions were becoming far too easy and frequent, yet he couldn’t find it in him to stop. It made him too happy.

“Let’s be honest,” John said, settling back against the cushions with Rosie. “When it comes to her vocabulary, she’s – well – you know.”

“Oh, I do,” Sherlock replied. He smirked when John moved to hit him before remembering he couldn’t. “I worry about her.”

“Well,” John huffed, “I’ll just make sure she has better role models for talking.” He glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “She might end up saying ‘idiot’ and ‘obvious’ too much, but you could be a worthy candidate.”

It took Sherlock far too long to realize John just implied that he wanted Sherlock to be around Rosie more. By the time he’d worked it out, John was already murmuring softly to Rosie, his attention no longer on Sherlock.

_Oh._

Just another thing to add to the extensive list of reasons why Sherlock didn’t want to go home.

<><><> 

_A worthy candidate? Really?_

John had been berating himself for it ever since he said it. He could be good with words when he was typing them out on a keyboard, but when it came to saying them aloud, he struggled.

Especially when he was speaking to his best friend.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Things had been going well with them lately. There were no more emotional outbursts, no secrets. To be honest, it was like as it had once been at Baker Street, only there was now a baby. And yet, John still found himself over-analyzing everything he said and did.

_I’m just afraid of ruining things again,_ he thought. _We’ve got a good thing, and I’m terrified of mucking it up. Yeah._

He wasn’t sure what that meant. He had faced some of the scariest things the world had to offer – war, psychopaths, being shot, fatherhood – and the thing that frightened him the most at that moment was losing his best friend.

_Because that’s what he is,_ he told himself. _My best friend._

That was another thing that had been troubling him. How difficult it had become to say that, even in his head. There was no doubt that Sherlock was his closest mate, but it had started to feel insufficient.

The thunderstorm had lessened, which made it easier to put Rosie to sleep. She hadn’t called John “Da” more than a handful of times since the first, but it still sent a jolt of bright happiness through him. He had hoped, of course, that her first word would be something like that, but he’d known better than to assume it would. His own first word had been “no,” funnily enough. His mother used to tell the story of how she tried to put John down for a nap and he’d spoken for the first time ever just to reject it. It still made him smile, even if the thought of his mother made him sad.

So, no, he hadn’t expected Rosie’s first word to be what she would be calling him (or, at least, a portion of it) for the rest of her life, but that didn’t make him any less happy that it had been. He was in a very good mood, and that was what gave him the courage to ask Sherlock to sit with him downstairs before bed.

“Tomorrow should have better weather,” Sherlock said, thumbing through weather reports on his phone. “We could take Rosamund on a walk. Perhaps visit the park again.”

“Yeah, alright,” John replied, a little delayed. He’d been watching Sherlock, getting caught up in the way he was so focused on his phone. So focused on planning the next day for the three of them. The constantly-thrumming happiness in his belly seemed to increase.

It took him a second too long to realize Sherlock was now looking at him too. With a click, he locked his phone and set it aside.

“What’s on your mind?” asked Sherlock. John blinked, thrown by the sudden question.

“Nothing.”

Sherlock gave him a look that said, “Really?” John sighed and repositioned himself on the couch so he was facing Sherlock more.

“I just really appreciate all you’re doing for us,” he said honestly. “It means a great deal to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Sherlock looked away and coughed. “Yes, well, I’m sure you would have found someone to help.”

“Possibly,” conceded John. “But no one who would have put in as much effort as you have.”

He didn’t know where all this sentiment was coming from, but he didn’t quite mind. After everything he’d put Sherlock through, he thought his friend could use some kind words.

Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, his gaze firmly fixed on his long fingers, which were smoothing out an invisible crease in his gray trousers. It was as though he wasn’t used to all this genuine praise. Sure, his mind was complimented frequently by all who beheld it (most often by John), but few people spoke to his kindness and compassion. That was most likely because few people saw it, but even those who knew it was there didn’t always speak up. It made John quite sad.

_He’s so brilliant and good,_ he thought. _Yet hardly anyone knows the real him. I’m_ _not even sure_ I _do._

“Will you tell me something?” asked John. Sherlock looked at him, a silent question in his eyes. John took a deep breath and tried not to fiddle with his sling. “Who was that friend you had when you were seven?”

Based on the look on Sherlock’s face, he clearly had not been expecting that. “I mentioned that _days_ ago. Have you really been thinking about it this whole time?”

John shrugged. “I was intrigued. I know nothing about your childhood, Sherlock. I’m curious.”

“Why?” Sherlock’s eyes were shrewd. John forced himself not to look away.

“Because you mean a lot to me,” he replied. “If I’m being honest – which I’m supposed to do now – the only person in this world who means more to me than you is Rosie. So, yeah, I want to know more about you. If you really don’t want to tell me, I’ll live, but I’ll be disappointed.”

Sherlock groaned. “Now that’s just not fair.” He was quiet for a moment before he spoke again. “His name was Victor. We lived close to each other.”

John inched closer. “Same age?”

Sherlock nodded. “I met him when I was six. My mother was desperate for me to find a playmate, so when the Trevors moved in, she all but demanded I go and play.” He wrinkled his nose. “It was rather annoying.”

Having seen Sherlock interact with his mother, John could almost picture what it was like for a six-year-old version of him to be bossed around her. The image his mind created made him smile a little. “Please tell me you went and introduced yourself.”

“I had to! Otherwise Mummy would take away my microscope, and I had a very important experiment on.”

John’s smile grew. “An experiment at six?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, though his cheeks held a reddish tint. “I was precocious.”

“I never would have guessed.”

“I will stop talking about this.”

“No,” John whined. “I’m sorry. Keep going, please.”

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. “I walked over to the Trevors with Redbeard and Mycroft and introduced myself. I was instantly bored with Mr. and Mrs. Trevor, but Victor intrigued me more than I thought he would.”

Sherlock’s eyes were becoming less focused. John could practically see him sinking into the memory. He spoke in a softer voice. “Why’s that?”

“He looked so… ordinary. I should have thought him boring, but instead I sensed that there was more to him.” Sherlock paused, thoughtful. “He looked at me and didn’t think I was odd. All the other children did, but Victor didn’t. It shocked me. It was enough to make me ask him if he wanted to pet Redbeard.”

John felt a little ache in his chest. He knew the adult Sherlock faced critics and bullies frequently, but he hadn’t really considered the same for the kid Sherlock. It would make sense, especially with his personality.

A little boy with curly, inky hair and mesmerizing eyes and a brain too powerful for such a young age… the thought of him being bullied and ostracized made John want to climb into the past and protect him from all the insults and disapproving stares. It made him want to reach out to Sherlock now, sitting hardly a foot from him on the couch.

But they didn’t do that, and Sherlock was still talking.

“He said yes, and by the end of the afternoon Redbeard adored him. And, in a way, so did I.”

Another odd feeling hit John’s chest. Slowly, he said, “Was he your first…”

Sherlock looked at him. “My first what?”

John swallowed. “Crush. Did you fancy him?”

“No,” Sherlock replied without a second thought. “I was too young for that. I was just happy to have a friend.” He looked away to the window. “I didn’t think I wanted one, but I suppose that every child does, deep down. No matter what they say.”

“So Victor became your best friend?” John prompted when it seemed Sherlock had no interest in continuing. Sherlock nodded.

“If I wasn’t at his house, he was at mine. We played in the backyard. Pirates, mostly. I had a hat and a toy sword.”

John smiled. “That’s adorable. Any chance you’ve still got it?”

He was surprised to see Sherlock actually looked rather sad. “No. I got rid of them when I got older. Had no use for them.”

This time, he let the silence stretch out between them for a little bit. He suspected Sherlock needed the time to gather his feelings, and he didn’t want to push him too quickly. The question he wanted to ask, though, burned his throat, until finally he said it.

“What happened to him? Victor?”

Sherlock’s jaw worked. “His family moved away just over a year later. I was so against it I begged his parents not to go. Created a whole argument about why them staying would be more beneficial. When they didn’t budge, I offered Victor a spare room in our house. It was my sister’s, but I didn’t realize it.” He looked down at his lap, where his fingers were gripping the seam of his trousers. “He said he couldn’t. He didn’t want to be separated from his parents.”

“That’s understandable,” John said gently. “He was young.”

“Yes, I know,” Sherlock huffed. “But back then it felt like a betrayal. He told me he’d keep in touch, and that he’d come visit.”

“And did he?”

The soft glow from the solitary lamp they had on lit Sherlock’s face, creating a little halo around his curls. His fingers twisted the fabric of his trousers. “For a time. But then he moved on. And I did too.”

John suspected that last bit was false, but he wasn’t going to push it. Twisting his body, he reached out with his left hand and placed it over Sherlock’s hand. His fingers were tense under John’s, and surprisingly warm. John felt a little thrill go up his spine.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I was seven,” Sherlock replied curtly. “It’s in the past, and we’re moving on from that, aren’t we?”

“We are,” John allowed. “But there are some things that define you that can’t just be erased. I’d say this is one of those things.”

Sherlock looked at him, and John was aware of how close they were. It was just like the park all over again. He felt himself grow breathless. Under his hand, Sherlock’s fingers began to relax.

“I’ve never told anyone about Victor,” said Sherlock. He paused and tilted his head. “I’ve never had anyone _to_ tell _._ ”

Almost against his will, John’s fingers tightened over Sherlock’s. He could have sworn he heard Sherlock gasp, but it was nearly drowned out by the rain.

“I’m honored, then.” John’s voice was low, and he wondered why he couldn’t get himself to speak louder. “Truly. It means a lot to me that you’d tell me.”

Sherlock hadn’t looked away from him for nearly a minute now. It felt like the longest amount of time they’d held eye contact for in a while. John had forgotten what a heady rush he got from these drawn-out gazes.

“You said I mean a great deal to you,” Sherlock said. “You’re the same for me.”

Without thinking, John said, “I know.” There wasn’t a day that went by now where he didn’t think of Sherlock’s feelings for him. He often wondered if he was being unfair, or if there was something he should be doing. These constant worries always ended with him giving up and carrying on like he always had. But now, in this quiet moment with just the rain and the single lamplight, with just Sherlock, John thought he might have been doing things wrong.

Something shuttered a little in Sherlock’s face at John’s two words. Panic rising in him, John gripped Sherlock’s hand tighter, as if to keep him from running.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he said. “I just – I don’t want to cause you any pain.”

_You daft idiot,_ he thought. _You’ve caused him incredible amounts of pain._

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over John’s face. John desperately felt the urge to take a deep breath, but he suppressed it.

“You don’t,” Sherlock murmured. “Not lately.”

“Don’t lie for my benefit.”

Sherlock’s thumb grazed the back of John’s hand, and a shiver danced through his body, unbidden.

“I wouldn’t,” said Sherlock. “Not about this. Not now.”

John swallowed. His right shoulder ached dully, and he longed to rub it, but there was nothing in this world that could make him move his hand at that moment.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s lips parted ever so slightly. “John.”

He couldn’t make himself speak louder than a whisper. “Tell me you’re happy.”

For the first time since Rosie had gone to bed, Sherlock smiled. It was small, but it still made John sag with relief.

“I’m happy, John.”


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock’s mind was still whirling the next morning.

John had _held_ his _hand,_ and looked into his _eyes,_ and wanted to know if he was _happy,_ and for God’s sake, Sherlock felt like a teenager. A lovesick teenager. He despised it. Resented it.

Loved it.

It was such an intimate moment, far more intimate than anything he’d ever experienced. And the fact that it was with _John_ only made it better.

He knew he needed to remind himself that John was straight and not at all interested in him, but he was too giddy to do that at the moment. He was up half the night cataloguing the moment in his Mind Palace, his stomach too fluttery (what an awful, but appropriate word) for him to relax. It needed to be memorized! The feeling of John’s fingers over his, the look in his eyes, the softness of his voice… Sherlock hadn’t been lying when he said he was happy.

 _This will only lead to further heartbreak,_ he reminded himself as he got dressed the following morning. _Hope is never, ever a good thing._

But John just had a way of making him forget all that.

Smoothing down his dark blue dress shirt, Sherlock left his bedroom (the _guest room,_ dammit, not his actual room) and headed downstairs. He had gotten up with Rosie over an hour ago, and when John joined them not long after, he insisted on taking over for a bit so Sherlock could shower and get dressed. That just meant that Sherlock could hear John talking to Rosie as he descended the staircase.

“But see, if you eat breakfast now, you get a snack later. And you love snacks, don’t you?”

There was a smacking noise, and John sighed. Sherlock smiled as he hopped down the last few steps and walked into the kitchen. Rosie was sitting in her high chair, her hands repeatedly hitting the little tray attached to it. There was a small jar of applesauce sitting on top. John stood before her, a spoon in his free hand.

“You need to do the airplane,” Sherlock said, walking straight to the kettle. “She likes that.”

John straightened and glared at him. “I know that, thanks, but she’s not responding to that either.”

Glancing over his shoulder as he filled the kettle with water, Sherlock could see Rosie had what he called her John Face on. It was the one she wore when she was being particularly stubborn.

“Hmm. And I heard you try reasoning with her. Have you gotten stern?”

“What do you think?” John held out the spoon. “You try. She listens to you.”

Sherlock shrugged and set the kettle on the stovetop. After ensuring it was on, he took the spoon from John and bent down to Rosie’s level.

“Now,” he said seriously. “Miss Watson. It is eight sixteen in the morning. That means it is breakfast time. You are too young to start skipping your morning meals. I myself waited until I was thirteen.”

“Sherlock,” warned John. Sherlock sighed.

“I mean, I always eat my breakfast, and you’ve got to too.” He held the spoon just before Rosie’s mouth, waiting for her to take the bait. She did not.

“And you made such a compelling argument,” said John. Sherlock twisted his neck so he could glare at him.

“You weren’t successful either.”

“You were my last hope.”

“Oh, shut it.” He turned back to Rosie. “Rosamund. _Please_ eat your food. You’re making your father very upset.”

Rosie blinked at him. “Da.”

“Yes, Da,” replied Sherlock, feeling only a little foolish. “Don’t you want him to be happy?”

Their staring contest went on for another minute before Rosie opened her little mouth and accepted the bite of applesauce. Both John and Sherlock breathed sighs of relief. As if she was pleased with herself, Rosie grinned.

“Uncle Sherlock wins again,” John said. The kettle started whistling, and he quickly took it off the stovetop before Rosie could start wailing. She hated that sound, as they learned a few days ago.

“She’s a smart girl,” said Sherlock, continuing to feed her. “I’ve always known it.”

John shook his head as he pulled out mugs for his and Sherlock’s tea. “You can’t just say she’s smart because she listens to you. If anything, that would make her the opposite of smart.”

“I think,” Sherlock said, “you just insulted your daughter.” He maneuvered the spoon carefully and guided a particularly problematic clump of applesauce into Rosie’s mouth. It had gotten stuck on her lower lip.

“Oi.” John lightly thumped him on the back of his head, and Sherlock made an undignified noise in response. “I would never do that.”

“I know,” Sherlock assured him. “I was joking. As you know, I can be terrible at it.”

John hummed in acknowledgment as he prepared their teas. Within a week of being stuck with the sling, he had started to master how to do things one-handed. Making tea was one of the first things he learned.

Sherlock wiped Rosie’s mouth with a damp cloth. Silence had settled over the kitchen, but it wasn’t awkward or oppressive. It was the opposite, in fact. There was a certain level of domesticity they had achieved in the recent days, and it was, quite frankly, delightful. Domestic life had never appealed to Sherlock, but the past week was making him rethink it.

“Here,” murmured John. He held out Sherlock’s mug, and Sherlock accepted it with a nod. The steam hit his face as he took a little sip. Made to perfection. John was like magic.

Once Rosie had finally eaten her fill, Sherlock started on breakfast for him and John. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, John began to read the newspaper. Occasionally he mentioned something Sherlock might find interesting, but for the most part he was quiet.

Sherlock was in the process of cooking eggs for the two of them when his phone rang. Digging it out of his trouser pocket with his free hand, he checked the screen. _LESTRADE._

“What?” said Sherlock in greeting. Behind him, John snorted.

“Good morning to you too,” Lestrade said. “You sound pleasant today.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I never sound pleasant. What do you want?”

“Sherlock,” John said lowly, a warning. Sherlock glared at him.

“I just wanted to see how things are getting on,” Lestrade said. Sherlock deduced he was in his office, despite the early hour. Most likely had his feet on the desk. “It’s been a week and I haven’t heard of any murder, so I’m hoping that’s a good sign.”

Thoughts of the previous night flashed in his mind. Sherlock jabbed the eggs with his spatula. “I’d say so.”

“I know that tone,” said Lestrade, and he almost sounded giddy. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“No, there isn’t.” He heard the rustle of papers, indicating John had turned another page.

“Remember,” Lestrade said. “I’m not an idiot. I know you better than you think.”

Before he had John, Lestrade was the only person who would stand up for Sherlock. He didn’t always do an excellent job of it, and there were days where Lestrade threatened to sever all ties with him, but compared to everyone else, he was a godsend. Sherlock had respected him from the very first moment they met. He’d been very high at the time, and Lestrade refused to let him in on the case he was working on unless he was sober.

Desperate to work on the case, Sherlock had turned up at Scotland Yard the next day sober. Lestrade, true to his word, let Sherlock in. It was the beginning of their partnership (though Lestrade would probably hesitate before using that term; Sherlock would too) that suffered many setbacks as Sherlock struggled to get clean. In the end, it was only with Lestrade’s unwavering strength that Sherlock could really shed his junkie persona and get clean.

“I know,” said Sherlock now, his voice softening. “Just – not now. I can’t now.”

“Ah,” Lestrade said. “He’s there with you now, isn’t he?”

Sherlock only grunted in response. Having finished the eggs, he took them off the stovetop and turned off the burner.

“Want to grab lunch then? Say around one?”

“I can’t,” replied Sherlock. He pulled plates down from the cabinets. John stood up from the table and joined him, indicating he could portion the eggs while Sherlock was on the phone. Sherlock nodded gratefully and held the pan steady for him.

“Why not?”

“I’ve got plans.” This earned him a raised eyebrow from John, which he ignored.

“What sort of plans could you have?” Lestrade challenged. “I’m sure John could survive without you for an hour or two.”

Sherlock didn’t want to admit that Lestrade was probably definitely right. “Doesn’t matter. We’ve got something on today.”

“No, we don’t,” John said, taking his now-full plate back to the table. Sherlock’s sat on the counter. “Is that Greg? You should go hang out with him.”

Sherlock took the phone away from his ear. “I don’t _hang out_ with people, John.”

“What have we been doing?”

“Living together.” John’s eyebrows rose again, and Sherlock hastily returned to Lestrade. “I can’t go.”

“I literally just heard everything John said. Come on, it’ll be good for you. We can talk about… things.”

Sherlock waited to be repulsed by that idea, but the feeling never came. In fact, it almost sounded… nice. Like it was something he would feel better after doing. The realization horrified him.

“Only if you promise it’s lunch and nothing else,” Sherlock said. “No going for a walk after or anything.”

Lestrade snorted. “You’re quite the social butterfly, aren’t you? Meet me at the Yard at one. If you back out, I’m calling John on you.”

Sherlock was about to retort that John wasn’t his handler and that he could do as he pleased, but Lestrade had already hung up. Shoving his phone back into his pocket, he grabbed his plate and sat down opposite John, who was watching him smugly.

“What?” Sherlock snapped when it got to be too much.

“You’re being social,” John said, not at all put-out by Sherlock’s tone. “It’s nice to see.”

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “Why?”

John picked up his mug and smiled at him over the rim. “No reason.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to make of that.

<><><> 

“Alright,” Lestrade said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Sherlock wished he’d never said yes to lunch. The restaurant – if one could call it that, as it was more like a pub – they were in was full of people on their breaks, and each person seemed to be speaking louder than the one next to them. He and Lestrade were seated in the middle of the room, and they had been there for all of one minute before Lestrade spoke.

“There’s nothing going on,” Sherlock said, refusing to look at him. Instead, his eyes flicked over the menu. Nothing sounded appealing.

“There’s something,” insisted Lestrade. “I heard it in your voice.”

“Oh, shut it with the voice.” At that moment, their waiter approached their table, clearly there for their drink orders. Based on the look on his face, Sherlock’s tone had scared him.

It didn’t have the same effect on Lestrade, however. He calmly ordered coffee for himself and water for Sherlock. Once the boy left, he looked back at Sherlock with an expectant look.

“I might have wanted coffee too, you know,” Sherlock said petulantly.

“Sherlock,” said Lestrade. “You’ve had only John to talk to for the past week, which may be heaven for you, but can’t be good for your emotions.”

Sherlock scoffed and closed his menu with a snap. “You sound like a therapist. And a bad one at that.”

“Think about it though.” Lestrade leaned forward, which just made Sherlock want to lean back. He didn’t, though, and he was rather proud of himself for it. “You’re living in close proximity to the person you’re in love with, who just happens to be the same person who, no offense to John, has caused you a lot of anguish recently. And _because_ he’s the only person you’ve been talking to – and no, Rosie doesn’t count – you can’t share your true feelings on the matter.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Sherlock glared at him for a full thirty seconds before he looked away with an overdramatic groan. “You’re infuriating. Truly.”

The waiter returned with their drinks, and Lestrade lifted his coffee mug towards Sherlock as if toasting him. “That’s why we’re such great friends.”

Those words struck a chord in Sherlock. He knew over recent years he’d managed to gain a few people he could possibly consider as friends, but having someone openly admit it – and so easily too – was still a rare occurrence. But it was true. He and Lestrade were friends. It made Sherlock happier than he thought it would.

“Things are going… well,” Sherlock admitted. “We’re doing much better.”

“You’ve talked things through, then?”

Sherlock unrolled his napkin and smoothed it over his lap. “Yes. He’s apologized for how he treated me, and I’ve forgiven him. We’ve agreed to be more… forthcoming with our feelings.” He wrinkled his nose and took a sip of water. “It’s all rather sentimental, I suppose.”

“Look at you,” Lestrade said, amused. “Sherlock Holmes, admitting to being sentimental. You’ve changed.”

Sherlock squirmed in his seat. “It’s not… entirely… the worst thing in the world.”

Lestrade chuckled. “What are the odds.” He sobered then, looking at Sherlock carefully. “And you’re happy with this situation? Really?”

Sherlock balled his napkin up. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He swore Lestrade’s gaze became tinged with pity, which made him bristle.

“You’re playing house with the man you’re deeply in love with. It’s nice now, yeah, but it’s not going to last forever.”

“I know that,” Sherlock bit out. “I’ve been telling myself that every day. But is it a crime to enjoy it while I have it?”

Lestrade softened, almost looking sad. “No. It’s not.”

Their conversation was stopped by the reappearance of their waiter, poised to take their food orders. Sherlock rattled his off dutifully while knotting his napkin. Lestrade’s eyes were still on him.

“I love him,” Sherlock said plainly once the waiter left. “Nothing is going to change that. If I want to keep him in my life, I have to learn to live with it. I’d say I’ve done a decent job of it so far.”

“You have,” Lestrade conceded. “It just doesn’t seem fair that you have to put up with all this pain.”

Sherlock looked up sharply at that. “I’m not in pain. I’m fine.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “Sure. Yeah, of course you’re not in any pain. Sorry I suggested otherwise.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and worked on unknotting his napkin. “It’s manageable.” He met Lestrade’s gaze. “I’m happy right now. Truly.” He paused, then gave the tiniest shrug. “As much as I can be.”

He wasn’t used to talking about his feelings, but he had to admit he felt a bit lighter now that he had. Lestrade seemed appeased for the moment, and possibly even a little touched that Sherlock had deemed him worthy enough to open up to him. As if Sherlock would go to anyone else. Considering how he couldn’t really talk to John about it, Lestrade was his best option.

Sherlock was admittedly really okay with that.

“Okay,” said Lestrade, mercifully letting things go. He seemed to sense he’d pushed Sherlock enough. “Just don’t keep it bottled up so much next time, okay? I’m only a phone call away if you need me.”

Sherlock’s throat clogged with unexpected emotion, and he had to take a giant sip of water to get himself through it.

“I know,” he said once he’d swallowed. He hesitated, then spoke quieter than before. “Thank you, Greg.”

Lestrade’s eyes widened briefly before he composed himself. He gave a curt nod, the corner of his mouth pushing up.

“So, has there been anything new with Miss Rosie?”

<><><> 

It turned out that Rosie’s unwillingness to eat her breakfast that morning was a warning. Two days later, John and Sherlock found themselves dealing with a seven-month-old in the middle of a truly fantastic strop.

It started in the morning, with Rosie refusing to eat breakfast much as she had before. This time, however, no amount of cajoling and bargaining on John and Sherlock’s part could convince her otherwise. They had argued with her for over an hour before it became apparent that the little girl was not going to budge.

Then she seemed unsatisfied with anything her father did. He put on some cartoons and she ran around screaming. He offered her toys and she tossed them aside. Sherlock tried to wrangle her into her pushchair so he could take her for a walk, but she merely kicked him and darted away. John would have found it hilarious if he didn’t want to explode.

“God,” John groaned as Rosie wailed and threw her stuffed dog at the floor. “I thought the problem age was two. Or just every single teenage year.”

Sherlock was busy Googling different parenting sites for advice. “I believe it depends on the child. There can’t just be a set age where children are supposed to be problematic.”

“How would you know?” John rubbed his forehead. “You’ve never been involved with children before her.” He tried to hand Rosie her dog back, and she batted it away with a shriek. Sherlock winced.

“Yes, for this very reason.”

John knew this is what it meant to be a parent, and he wouldn’t trade his Rosie for anything, but it was moments like this where he wouldn’t mind passing her off to someone for an hour or two. His head was pounding and his shoulder was acting up. The only thing that sounded good right now was a nap.

“She won’t eat,” he said, ticking things off on his left hand. “She won’t nap. She won’t play. She’ll hardly sit still enough to be changed.”

“If she was older, I’d say she’s menstruating.”

John glared at him, wishing he could throw something at the man. “You’re not helping.”

“Oh, but I am,” Sherlock declared. “For I have an idea.”

“She probably needs to be changed,” said John, trying to feel her diaper. This was proving to be quite difficult, because he didn’t have his right arm available to hold onto her when she attempted to run away.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I have an idea.”

“Yeah,” John grunted. “I heard you. I was just hoping you’d _share_ this idea instead of just _talking_ about having it.” Sherlock was sitting on the couch while John was on the floor with Rosie, and he was more than a little peeved about it.

Sherlock was wise to stop himself from arguing. “Music has been known to soothe unruly children.”

John gave up on trying to hold onto his squirming daughter and looked up at Sherlock. “Music? Seriously? You want me to put on a CD?”

The look Sherlock gave him could only be described as condescending. “You would play a CD?”

“I swear to God,” John said, clenching his fingers into a fist. “Now is not the time.”

Sherlock plowed on quickly. “Live music could prove to be more beneficial, if she can actually _see_ where the noises are coming from. It might interest her.”

John blinked. “Brilliant. I don’t suppose you have your violin?”

Sherlock deflated. “Well, no. It’s at Baker Street.”

“Well,” said John. “That’s a dead end.” Rosie ran for the stairs just then, and Sherlock jumped up to grab her before she could start climbing them. John pinched the bridge of his nose.

“We could always go there and pick it up,” Sherlock pointed out. Rosie was _not_ pleased at being picked up and kept kicking her little legs around with such ferocity that John was a little afraid Sherlock would accidentally drop her. “It’s not far.”

“Look at her,” John said. “Do you really think we could wrangle her into her car seat? You couldn’t even get into the pushchair.”

“I’m already holding her! That’s half the battle!”

As if she understood him, Rosie kicked him right in the stomach. She couldn’t have gotten much force behind it, but Sherlock still grunted.  It took John a second to realize that was right where Sherlock’s gunshot wound was. His stomach dropped at the thought, but Sherlock didn’t seem to think twice about it.

“I mean it, John,” he was saying. “It’s worth a shot.”

John looked from Sherlock, with his face so hopeful, to Rosie, who was so inexplicably upset that John ached with the need to make things better. He sighed and stood up, hating how his body practically creaked.

“Alright,” he said. “To Baker Street.”

<><><> 

It took John all of one minute after stepping into 221B to realize what a colossally bad idea going there was.

He hadn’t been there since the day Sherlock came out to him and confessed his feelings, and the realization hit him like a bullet. The sitting room already held so many memories that clogged his throat, but to have that one be the most recent… it was a lot to handle.

Downstairs, Rosie was still fussing tremendously, but she had calmed a bit when she saw Mrs. Hudson. John suspected the car ride had helped too. Mrs. Hudson had insisted on watching over Rosie while Sherlock and John went up to the flat, citing a need for “godmother time.” John was only too happy to hand her over, a fact he felt a little guilty about.

Now John looked around at the place where he once lived, the first place in his whole life where he had truly felt content. Remembered the lazy nights in front of the telly, the early mornings making tea, the days where he’d come home to find Sherlock in the middle of an experiment, or playing the violin, or lying on the couch, his curls all mussed and his long fingers pressed against his lips…

John blinked and looked away. 221B hadn’t been his in a very long time. He’d been there many times since he moved out, but none of them seemed to _hurt_ as much as this one did. He didn’t understand why this one was making more of an impact, and he was afraid to figure it out.

“Here it is,” said Sherlock. He had his violin case in his hands, having finally located it amongst the familiar clutter. “I don’t know how much it will help, but it could do some good…” He trailed off when he noticed John looked faintly overwhelmed. “John?”

“Yeah?” John shoved his emotions down as best he could and raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. “All good?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in his trademark, assessing way. “I feel as though I should be asking you that.”

John swallowed harshly and looked away. He reached up to the strap that hung around his neck and tugged at it. “Yeah. I’m good. Fine.”

“John,” Sherlock said softly. “Please.”

That one word, so simple and yet it had the power to undo him. John sniffed and poked an old burn on the carpet with his foot. He could recall exactly how that came to be. It involved Sherlock and a blowtorch. And a very angry Mrs. Hudson afterwards.

“Just…” John gazed at the bullet-ridden wall. “So many memories.”

When he could finally look back over at Sherlock, he saw that Sherlock’s expression had softened. He set his violin down in his chair and stepped closer to John. It made John aware that the sitting room wasn’t as big as it seemed.

“May I ask you something?” Sherlock asked, looking surprisingly timid. John nodded warily. He could still hear Rosie downstairs, now babbling to Mrs. Hudson.

“Go on.”

“Why didn’t you stay here?” Sherlock’s voice was quiet, almost reverent. Respectful of the past. John wanted to run.

“What do you mean?” he asked, even though he knew perfectly well what Sherlock was talking about. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have, but he couldn’t avoid it now.

“After I jumped,” Sherlock said. John flinched, and Sherlock immediately took another step forward. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” rasped John. He cleared his throat and forced his left hand to unclench. When he spoke again, his voice was thankfully more even. “I couldn’t. I just couldn’t bear to be here with all your things, and your memory…” He closed his eyes, the old feelings sliding over him like a thick coat. “This was your home,” he whispered. “This was where Sherlock Holmes lived and breathed, and he wasn’t living and breathing in it anymore, and I just _couldn’t._ ”

The tears he hadn’t dealt with in the past few days returned with a vengeance, burning his eyes and making him want to break. He was aware of Sherlock shuffling closer, and while his first instinct was to move away, he pushed through it and let himself move towards Sherlock. Sherlock’s hand came to rest on his left arm, and John’s knees almost buckled.

“It was yours too,” Sherlock murmured. “But I understand. I don’t think I could have stayed if you…”

But Sherlock _did_ stay, even after John left him behind. And while John was admittedly alive, Sherlock still had to deal with the emptiness, the loneliness. In that sense, Sherlock was stronger than John could ever hope to be. He was _braver._

John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes and had the air torn from his lungs. There was so much understanding and compassion in those damn eyes. They were gentle and pained and _beautiful._

They reminded him of another memory, just as strong as the one he was currently in. His wedding, the reception. The dance floor. Sherlock just gave one last toast – one last _vow_ – and informed John and Mary that they were to be parents. And John had looked at Sherlock, a bright smile on his face, and gripped the back of his neck. Sherlock had been smiling too, but then his smile faded. John’s did too, for a reason he couldn’t entirely pinpoint. Suddenly Sherlock’s gaze had been too much, and he looked away.

What would he have seen if he hadn’t looked away?

“John?” Sherlock’s voice drew him back into the present. John blinked harshly, dislodging a few tears. They were wiped away seconds later by Sherlock, and John felt like he was falling.

“Oh my God,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I’m so sorry. So – that was dreadful. Shit.”

“Hey,” said Sherlock. “That wasn’t dreadful. It was – good.”

John eyed him doubtfully. His voice was thick because of the crying. “Good? What was good about that?”

Sherlock gave him a tiny, but still genuine smile. “You didn’t hide.”

With those three tiny words, John’s spirits were lifted, and he was able to smile a little back. “I wanted to,” he admitted.

“I know. I could tell. But you didn’t, and I’m proud of you because of it.”

Feeling his cheeks grow warm, John ducked his head. _I’m trying,_ he thought. _For you._

“Yes, well, as good as that apparently was,” he said, “I’d like to move on.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, not pushing it at all. John appreciated it greatly. Leaving John where he was, Sherlock went back to his chair and retrieved his violin. John wiped away the last bit of moisture that stuck to his lashes.

His gaze fell on his old chair, the one that sat just across from Sherlock’s. It had been there before he moved in, so it wasn’t like it had truly belonged to him, but it had become his over time. It hadn’t been there before Sherlock was shot, but then Sherlock moved it back. John wondered what it was like for him to have it be unoccupied. To sit across from it and constantly be reminded that John wasn’t there. Did Sherlock even sit in his chair when he was there alone? Or was it too much?

“It was ours,” he said, surprising himself. Sherlock, who had been checking the inside of his case, looked up.

“What?”

“This,” John said, gesturing around the room. “It was ours. Our home. That’s why I couldn’t stay.”

Sherlock’s lips parted, his eyes growing sad. John’s heart ached painfully at the realization that came with his words.

He wanted to come home.

221B Baker Street was the one place he’d ever felt at home, the one place he loved enough to _call_ home, and he wanted to return. He could see it now: Rosie running around the sitting room while Sherlock worked on an experiment in the kitchen and John typed up a blog post in his chair. They’d order takeout for dinner and sit together to eat it and be so happy. Rosie would take his old room upstairs, and John would… where would John go?

“Oh dear,” Sherlock said. “I think Rosie has grown tired of Mrs. Hudson.”

Like the volume had been turned back up, John could hear Rosie throwing a tantrum downstairs. A second later, Mrs. Hudson called their names. Their private moment was gone.

“We’d better go,” Sherlock continued. “See if the violin works.” He made for the door, but stopped when John didn’t move with him. “John? Coming?”

John looked around at the sitting room. At the stains and holes and general mess. At his chair, sitting opposite its companion.

“Yeah,” he said roughly. “Yeah, let’s go.”

<><><> 

The violin proved to be a success. Sherlock was overjoyed, Rosie was entranced, and John was…

John was thinking he really needed to work some things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter a week later??? I know, I'm just as surprised as you guys are. I can't promise the next one will be up as quickly as this one was, but I was feeling extra inspired this week and more than a little sad, and this fic has become a thing that makes me very happy, so I turned to it when I could. I have the next several chapters mapped out too, which helps with the whole motivation thing.
> 
> Thanks for reading!! Xoxo


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned to have this up much sooner, but alas. Still, I hope you all enjoy!

Considering how well everything had been going, Sherlock should have realized it would inevitably fall apart.

Human error, he supposed. He once mocked Irene Adler for falling prey to it. It was ironic that the same thing that caused him to panic just three days after their visit to Baker Street. Because he had gotten too comfortable, too caught up in his feelings that he forgot something massively important.

Something that his brother was all too happy to remind him of.

“Little brother,” Mycroft greeted him when he finally deigned to pick up the phone. Sherlock was in his room – the _guest_ room – having just gotten dressed. The steady good mood he’d been in for several days had evaporated at the sight of his older brother’s name on his phone, and it only got worse as the conversation continued.

“Mycroft,” said Sherlock. “Make it quick. I’m in the middle of something.”

“Playing house?”

Sherlock scowled. “Not wanting to speak with you.”

Mycroft sighed, a heavy, exasperated thing. “What I have to say is important. Surely you can get over that for a few minutes.”

As much as Sherlock hated to admit it, Mycroft’s tone unnerved him. He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Go on then.”

“You remember our sister, yes?”

Sherlock’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t exactly forgotten about her, considering how John carried the reminder of her every day in his sling, but he’d forgotten she was a problem. Mycroft said he would take care of it, and Sherlock trusted his brother to do so.

That might have been poor planning on his part.

“Has she done something?”

“That’s the thing,” said Mycroft. “My people have… lost track of her.”

Silence rang down the line as Sherlock processed this. Dread began to creep up his spine, and suddenly all he could imagine was John lying on the floor of his therapist’s office, bleeding out onto the carpet.

“So she could be anywhere,” Sherlock said flatly. “She could be in London was we speak.”

“We don’t think she is,” Mycroft replied. “But there is a chance she could be on her way.”

“On her way to finish John off.” Sherlock loathed how much his heart was pounding in that moment.

“No,” Mycroft said, catching Sherlock by surprise. “I don’t believe that is what her plan is.”

“Then what is it?”

Mycroft took so long to respond that Sherlock nearly snapped at him to hurry up. “She never cared about John. Her real target is you. If she’s coming to London, it’s because of you.”

Sherlock should have known this. And really, deep down, he did. The evidence was all there, from John being shot to Sherlock’s brief time with Eurus when they were children. However, in his determination to put his forgotten little sister from his mind, back when he thought Mycroft was going to handle it, he had ignored Eurus’ very clear motivations. And now he would pay for it.

“What am I supposed to do about this?” Sherlock spat, hoping his harsh tone would hide his anxiety. “You don’t even know where she is. I don’t even know what she looks like.”

“True,” Mycroft said. “But there is still something you can do to make all of this easier.”

“Stop being so dramatic and say it.”

He could practically hear Mycroft rolling his eyes. “By staying with the Watsons, you are putting them in danger. Now might be a good time to return to Baker Street.”

Again, he should have known this. It was the only logical solution. And yet, despite Sherlock’s strong belief in all things logical, he hated the idea and wanted another one. His heart ached at the mere thought.

“I thought the Watsons had security,” Sherlock said, keeping his fear out of his voice as best as he could. “You have people watching. If she tries to come here, it won’t work.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft sounded so patronizing, Sherlock wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him. “They won’t be able to stop her.”

Sherlock stared at the wall. Downstairs, he could hear Rosie’s delighted squeals and John’s warm laugh. He knew without looking that his things were scattered around the room as though he lived there, as though it was his real bedroom. John had even given him a key to the house.

But the whole reason he was there circled back to why he had to leave. His deranged sister had resurfaced, harmed his best friend, and would likely harm everyone who stood between her and him. He couldn’t put John and Rosie at risk. He loved them too much for that.

“I’ll pack my things and return home this afternoon,” Sherlock finally said. “If you hear anything else regarding our sister, please tell me.” The “please” just slipped out, a testament to how shaken he was. Mycroft was kind and did not comment on it.

“You’re doing the right thing, brother mine,” said Mycroft. “And it’s not as though you’ll never see them again.”

_I know that,_ Sherlock nearly said. _But I’ll never be a part of their family again._

Instead he hung up and began to pack.

<><><> 

Sherlock had said he would only be a few minutes, so when a half hour had gone by and Sherlock still hadn’t come downstairs, John started to worry. A side-effect of having one’s best friend be on the brink of death numerous times was constantly being anxious when they weren’t in sight. After ensuring Rosie was secure in her playpen, John went upstairs to the guest bedroom.

“Sherlock?” He lightly knocked on the open door before peering around it. The sight that greeted him made his stomach plummet to the ground.

Sherlock’s bag was on the bed, half-filled with his clothes and toiletries. The man himself stood before it, in the middle of folding a pair of boxer briefs. John’s cheeks flushed momentarily before he reminded himself of what was going on.

“Going somewhere?” he managed, his throat tightening. He tried to recall if Sherlock had mentioned anything about leaving and came up empty. He’d been blindsided.

“Oh. John.” Sherlock seemed to be both sad and guilty. His shoulders were hunched. He set the boxer briefs down in the bag. “It came to my attention that my presence here is a… security risk.”

John gaped at him. “A security risk? What are you talking about?”

Sherlock’s eyes left his and went to the sling. “Mycroft has lost track of my sister, which means she could be anywhere. It seems likely that she will be coming for me, and when she does she will not hesitate to harm anyone she deems a threat. That would include you, as we’ve seen.”

John’s shoulder ached. He moved further into the room. “But… no. That’s ridiculous. You’ll be left alone.”

Something – possibly pain – flashed across Sherlock’s face. “Mycroft has men watching Baker Street.”

“I thought he had men here too.”

“He does, but –”

“Then why do you have to go?” John knew he sounded desperate, but he was panicking. He thought he and Sherlock had more time to continue whatever they were doing. He was _enjoying_ it. For the first time in months he hadn’t been waking up every morning to a crippling depression. Rosie seemed happier too, and John was finally feeling more comfortable with being her father. He was afraid that any change would disrupt it all. And what about his relationship with Sherlock? They had only just gotten back to the level of comfort they used to have with each other back at Baker Street. What would happen if he left?

“Believe me,” Sherlock said, and John did. “I don’t want to.” There was a sadness in Sherlock’s eyes that made John hurt. “But I need to keep you two safe.”

“You can do that here,” John pleaded. He hadn’t realized how close he’d gotten, but now he and Sherlock were practically toe to toe. “You know you can. You’re brilliant like that.”

Pink spots appeared on Sherlock’s cheeks, and he ducked his head. John didn’t take his eyes off him, silently willing him to agree.

“John. I can’t.”

John swallowed hard, the tightness in his body spreading to his chest. He shook his head. “Just – can you give me a little bit to change your mind? Please?”

Sherlock’s face crumpled slightly before he nodded. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

John felt a bit of his hope return, and before he could chicken out, he took Sherlock’s hand and squeezed. Sherlock’s head snapped up.

“Thank you,” John said. Then he left the room and pulled out his cell phone. He needed some assistance.

<><><> 

After John left, Sherlock didn’t continue packing. He sat on the bed and stared at his bag, aching to take everything out of it. Him leaving was always inevitable, but not so soon. The plan was for him to stay until John got the sling removed. Then he would return to Baker Street and mourn all he had lost. But he thought he had more time to prepare.

Downstairs, about twenty minutes later, he heard the doorbell ring. Curious, he stood and walked to the stop of the stairs.

“Thank you so much for coming,” he heard John murmur.

“It’s no problem at all,” Molly chirped, and Sherlock felt himself relax. “I love spending time with Rosie, you know that.” She paused, and Sherlock thought perhaps she was taking off her coat or something. When she spoke again, he had to lean forward to hear her. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” John said. “I mean, hopefully. Sherlock and I just need to get out for a little bit.”

This was news to Sherlock, and in his confusion, he almost missed the all-too-casual way Molly said, “Oh?”

“What?” John asked, just as befuddled as Sherlock. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” replied Molly, and Sherlock could have sworn she almost seemed disappointed. “I’ll watch over Rosie while you’re gone.”

“Ta, Molly. You’re a lifesaver as always.”

Molly giggled and said something else, but Sherlock stopped listening at that point. He wasn’t sure what to make of Molly’s reaction to John saying the two of them were going out, so he chose to ignore it for the time being. He went back to his room to fetch his phone and then went downstairs.

“Hi, Sherlock!”  Molly greeted him with a smile, and, despite the anxious ball in his stomach, he managed a tiny smile back.

“Molly. I didn’t realize you were coming over.”

“That’s because I just invited her,” John said. He was struggling to put his jacket on. Without thinking, Sherlock moved forward and helped tug the garment over John’s good arm. Molly smiled.

“And we’re going out?” Sherlock asked, stepping away from John. John nodded and snatched Sherlock’s coat off its hook. He shoved it into Sherlock’s arms.

“We’re going for a walk,” clarified John. “Is that alright?”

“Sure,” Sherlock said. He put his coat on and was about to reach for his scarf before he realized John was already holding it out for him. Their fingers brushed when he took it. He blushed and looked away, knotting it around his neck.

“We’ll be back soon,” John said to Molly, perfectly composed. He gave Rosie a quick kiss on the head. “Be good for Aunt Molly, love.”

“Da,” Rosie said. John smiled warmly.

Sherlock wasn’t going to give Rosie a kiss – a small attempt at self-preservation – but then Rosie fixed her big eyes on him and he was lost. Ignoring the pang in his chest, he walked over and bent down to brush his lips over her head.

“Be good,” he said quietly. Rosie grabbed his scarf, and he had to pry her fingers off before he could step away.

John was watching him with an expression that seemed to be a mix of longing and faint sadness. It made Sherlock’s heart beat harder, and he had to look away.

“Well,” John said, breaking the silence that had fallen over them. “We’re off.” He strode to the front door and opened it, gesturing for Sherlock to go through. Bowing his head, Sherlock hurried out. He realized far too late that this whole thing meant that he and John were going to be completely alone.

John stepped up beside him and started down the sidewalk. Sherlock fell into step with him, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. He was on John’s left side, and his hand was dangling there within reach of Sherlock, and he didn’t want to be tempted. Despite John touching his hand earlier, he wasn’t completely sure of what he was allowed, and he didn’t want to ruin anything.

Of course, him leaving seemed like it could ruin a great deal, but it was necessary.

John didn’t speak until they were two blocks away from his house. “So. You talked to your brother.”

It took Sherlock a moment to remember that he never explicitly stated that Mycroft had called him. “How did you know?”

John’s lips quirked into a self-satisfied smirk. “No one could make you tenser than him. Also, he’s the only one who wouldn’t encourage you to stay. Molly and Greg both think it’s great.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock said, “they don’t understand the situation.”

“Then I guess I don’t either. Could you explain it to me again?”

Sherlock sighed. “Eurus wants me for whatever reason. She will find me wherever I am. As I am currently residing in your house, she will most likely come here. As she has proven already, she is dangerous. She will not hesitate to hurt anyone who stands between us. That would include you and Rosamund. Therefore, it is only logical that I take my leave.”

“Hm.” John looked thoughtful. “Yeah, I can see why you would think that makes sense. Doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do.”

“John…”

“No,” said John, his voice firm. “Just listen to me. Over three years ago, you were in trouble. Moriarty, remember him?”

A shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine. He glared at John. “Don’t be obnoxious about it.”

John’s eyes flicked to him, a silent apology, before he continued. “You took him on alone because you thought it would protect me. Yes?”

“It _did_ protect you,” huffed Sherlock. “You’re alive now because of it.”

“True.” John paused. When he spoke again, his voice was sincerer. “I owe you a great deal. I may not have liked everything that led to it, but I do really appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

Sherlock was fairly certain he was blushing, and he hated himself for it. “I know. Believe me, I do.”

“Yes, well.” John cleared his throat. “Anyway. You created a plan all by yourself –”

“With _Molly’s_ help –”

“–Yeah, I remember, thanks. The point is, you didn’t include me. And if you’ll recall, when you came back, I wasn’t very happy with you.”

Sherlock flexed his hands in his pockets. “I remember, thank you. Not quite sure I see your point, however.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t,” John said. “Because you’re an idiot who still thinks being alone is the best course of action. It’s not. I really thought you had learned that by now.”

A car drove past them on the street, and Sherlock wished it could take him with it. Everything hurt, and he just wanted it to stop.

“Can’t you see,” he said, his voice shaking only slightly, “that I am doing this to protect you and Rosie?”

Something in that sentence made John halt his steps, causing Sherlock to move in front of him before coming to a stop himself. He forced himself to turn around and face John, who was looking at him with a wide-eyed expression that conveyed both sadness and compassion.

“I can see that,” John replied, suddenly soft. “I know exactly why you want to run. But, Sherlock, that’s exactly why you have to _stay._ ”

John took a step forward, and it took all of Sherlock’s restraint not to step back. Despite them being outside, the air around them felt quiet and undisturbed, like they were the only ones on that street.

“You don’t have to take your sister on alone,” John continued. “You’ve never had to do anything alone because you have me. I’ve let you down too many times. I won’t do it again. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

It was all too much. Sherlock closed his eyes, his breath becoming uneven. Before he could stop himself, he took a hand from his pocket and grasped John’s. A small sense of calm immediately spread through him just from the simple contact.

“If anything happens to you –” he began, but John cut him off.

“Don’t think like that. Those are dangerous thoughts to have, especially in a mind like yours.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “You want to protect me, and I want to protect you. So, let’s protect each other _together._ That’s what family does.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, and he stared at John. John gave him a little smile, the one where his lips just began to poke up at the corners. “John…”

“Please, Sherlock.” John bit his lip. “For me.”

Sherlock exhaled harshly and looked away. The sky was overcast, which made sense because he felt like the sun was in his chest instead.

“Well,” he said, struggling to compose himself. He blinked away the wetness in his eyes and cleared his throat. “Rosamund needs someone with two available hands to protect her. I suppose it should be me.”

John’s tiny smile blossomed into a wide one, and Sherlock knew he made the right choice, Mycroft be damned. He had loved ones to think of.

“Lunch?” John asked. “Since Molly’s got Rosie?”

“Sure.” The two men started walking again, and they made it to the next block before they realized they were still holding hands.

<><><> 

Molly was reading a book when John and Sherlock returned from lunch. They burst through the door, laughing in ways Molly hadn’t heard in far too long. She slowly turned the page and closed the book, trying to look casual and like she wasn’t at all bursting with happiness at the sight of them.

“Welcome back,” she said with a smile. John grinned at her, and even Sherlock gave her a wave. He’d never done such a thing before.

“Sorry we were out a bit longer than expected,” John said. “I hope Rosie’s been good for you.”

“Oh, she was no problem at all,” Molly replied. “She’s napping now.”

“You got her to nap?” Sherlock looked impressed. “Well done. We thought for sure she wouldn’t want one today.”

Molly had to clutch her book to keep herself from squealing. “Sometimes you just need a woman’s touch.”

Sherlock nodded approvingly. Molly watched as John looked at him with the softest eyes she’d ever seen. It was amazing what a little communication could do for them. She had to wonder what sort of things could have been avoided if they had just _talked._ It was a shame that it had taken them so long, but she supposed it was also better late than never.

“Tea?” asked John, still looking at Sherlock. A moment later, he seemed to remember he had another guest and looked to Molly.

Clearly, they had a wonderful time at lunch together, and Molly was unwilling to disturb it. They were in such a good place. She stood up, her book held to her chest.

“Thank you, but I better be going,” she said. “If you ever need any more help, you know where to find me.”

“Thank you so much, Molly,” John said. He came over and gave her a one-armed hug. “I continue to be in your debt.”

She blushed at that, still unused to people expressing so much gratitude. It was quite nice, but she didn’t always know what to do with it. One of the many things she was working on with herself. She leaned closer to John so she could whisper in his ear.

“You look so happy,” she said. “I’m glad it’s all working out.”

When she pulled back, John was beaming. “Thanks. Really. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

That was untrue, she knew, but Sherlock was watching them with narrowed eyes and she felt like it was best if she left, so she didn’t argue. Quickly saying her goodbyes, Molly left and walked out to her car. She settled into the front seat and hooked her phone up to the Bluetooth system so she could drive and talk on the phone. As she started the car and drove away, she made a call.

“So?” Greg asked instead of a greeting. “How are they?”

“Not so good at first,” she said. “Sherlock was sad, and John was nervous. But after they came back… Gosh, Greg, you should have seen them.”

“They’re all better?” Greg sounded as hopeful as Molly had been feeling.

“They’re better than better,” she replied, easing her car to a stop at a busy intersection. “They were smiling and laughing and…” She bit her lip and finally admitted what she had already been thinking. “They looked like a couple.”

Greg blew out a breath. “Of course they did. Sherlock’s mad for John, and I suspect John’s the same for him, though I don’t think he’s realized it.”

“He definitely hasn’t,” Molly said. She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “But I think you’re right.”

“They’ve been a bloody couple for years,” Greg declared. “They’re just the only ones who don’t know. Something tells me they’ll figure it out soon though.”

“What makes you say that? It’s taken them years to just develop a healthy friendship.”

“But it’s because it’s been so long that they’ll finally get there,” Greg insisted. “They can see how much time they’ve wasted.”

Molly worried her lower lip. “And if they actually can’t?”

Greg’s response was so sure that Molly felt a renewed sense of confidence. “Then we’ll knock some sense into them. They’re perfect together, and all they have to do is see it.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, had some laptop issues. Hope you enjoy!

_“Sherlock,” John said, placing his right hand over Sherlock’s left. “You’ve been so wonderful these past few weeks – past few_ years _, really. And I just wanted you to know how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me._

_“It’s nothing,” Sherlock replied, letting his fingers curl over John’s. “I’m happy to do it.”_

_“And why’s that?” John’s eyes sparkled, his smile gently teasing. Sherlock’s stomach flipped._

_“You know why.”_

_“And maybe I want to hear it.” John leaned forward. Sherlock could feel his breath. “Please.”_

_It took considerable effort to keep looking into John’s eyes. “I love you, John. I always have.”_

_John’s smile widened. It lit up his face and the air around him. Nothing could compare to the way he looked in that very moment. “Sherlock, I –”_

Sherlock woke with a start, his vision and thoughts muddled. It took a few blinks to adjust to the dark, and even then he needed another moment to pull his mind together. He didn’t understand why he was awake, especially since he had been dreaming only seconds before.

_And what a dream it had been…_

Then it hit him. A tiny cry had reached his ears, the kind of cry that belonged to a seven-month-old girl.

Sherlock was out of his bed and down the hall in an instant. Rosie’s room was empty aside from the girl herself, showing that either John hadn’t heard or hadn’t arrived yet. Either way, Sherlock wasted no time in crossing to her crib and picking her up.

“What’s wrong, Rosamund?” he murmured, stroking her back. “You haven’t woken like this in over a week.”

Rosie sniffed and cried some more. Then she coughed. And coughed again.

Frowning, Sherlock adjusted her so he could see her face. Her cheeks were flushed with an unnatural color. He lifted a hand to her forehead, not realizing it had begun to shake ever so slightly.

“You’re so warm,” he said. “Like you’ve got a fever.”

A cold feeling grasped Sherlock. She had a fever. She was _sick._ He felt paralyzed, and for once his mind wasn’t giving him any solutions. He didn’t know what to do, and it was terrifying. As if she could sense his panic, Rosie began to cry louder, her wails occasionally pierced by a cough.

“What’s going on?”

Sherlock whirled around. John stood in the doorway, his hair rumpled with sleep and his eyes rapidly sharpening. He looked from Rosie to Sherlock, worried.

“Rosamund,” Sherlock said. “She’s – I think she’s sick.”

He expected John to become frantic with concern, just like he was, but instead John just joined him in the middle of the room and examined his daughter. He put his left hand to her forehead, much like Sherlock had, and hummed.

“Yeah, looks like she’s got a bit of a fever. Doesn’t feel too bad though. Probably just a cold.”

Sherlock stared at him incredulously. John raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“How are you so calm?” Sherlock asked. “Your daughter is sick!”

“Yeah,” said John slowly, like Sherlock was being an idiot. “And I’m a doctor. I’d know if this was bad, and it’s not. Babies get colds all the time. It’s because of their immune systems.” John’s lips quirked up in amusement. “Do you not have that stored in your Mind Palace?”

Sherlock huffed, looking away from him as his cheeks pinked with embarrassment. “Why would I need to know about babies and their susceptibility to the common cold?” In reality, he was quite certain he did in fact have that bit of knowledge tucked away, most likely from a case, but he didn’t want to admit how he wasn’t able to call it up at that moment.

“I don’t know, because you’ve got a goddaughter?” With any other tone, John’s words might have been disapproving or harsh, but he was teasing instead. “It’s okay. It’ll most likely go away in a few days. Until then, we just have to keep her hydrated and make sure she can breathe okay.”

Sherlock’s panic spiked. “Why wouldn’t she be breathing okay?”

John pressed his lips together, as if suppressing a smile. Why he would be smiling in that moment, Sherlock didn’t know. “Mucus, Sherlock. It’s a part of getting sick. Again, not a big issue. I’ve got a humidifier we can set up in here for her, and there are some drops we can get for her nose.”

John was so calm, and his voice was soothing the tension out of Sherlock’s body. Rosie had quieted somewhat, though she still sniffed and whined whenever she coughed. Sherlock’s heart ached to see her looking so pitiful. He rubbed her back as though he could take her sickness away.

“You heard your father,” he said. “You’re going to be okay, Miss Rosamund. Isn’t that wonderful? You will make a full recovery. How could you not, with the best doctor in the world as your dad?”

When Sherlock looked at John again, he saw that John had averted his eyes.

“I’m going to prepare her a bottle,” John said roughly. “Best to give her something now.” He left the room without another word, leaving Sherlock there, confused. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel like moments like those were happening more frequently, and he didn’t know what to make of it.

“I swear,” he said, looking down at a runny-nosed Rosie. “I do not know what goes on inside his head.”

<><><> 

Like John said, Rosie’s cold began to fade over the next couple of days. He had pulled out the humidifier and plugged it in in her room, and he sent Sherlock to the store for some saline drops to help clear her nose. Sherlock ached to give her proper medicine, because he knew it would help, but John said babies couldn’t take it.

They gave her as many bottles as they could without going overboard in order to keep her hydrated. If she started crying, Sherlock would pace with her in his arms and rub her back soothingly. He carried a pack of tissues in his pocket in case her nose ran, something John seemed to find endearing.

John’s reaction to Sherlock’s concern for Rosie was intriguing to say the least, but Sherlock chose not to read too much into it. He couldn’t help but worry that, if he did, he would get his hopes up, and that wasn’t something he could afford to do. John probably just thought it was funny that he had an advantage over Sherlock for once.

Of course, that explanation didn’t quite fit the lingering stares John fixed on him whenever Sherlock cradled Rosie to his chest, or the gentle touches John would plant on his shoulder or hand. But again, he couldn’t analyze those too closely. Not if he wanted to preserve what little fragments of his heart that had remained unbroken.

“Almost there,” John said two days after Rosie had woken them up in the middle of the night. Sherlock was just finishing squirting some saline drops into her nose. “She’ll be back to normal either tomorrow or the day after.”

Sherlock carefully wiped Rosie’s nose, then picked her up from where she had been lying on the couch. “And not a moment too soon. I don’t like her being sick.”

“It’s a fact of life, Sherlock,” John said, joining the two of them on the couch, cup of tea in hand. “She’s going to get sick a lot.”

“Well, yes,” Sherlock replied, “but in the future she won’t be as… fragile.”

John lifted his tea to his lips as they began to curl upward. “Fragile? Really?”

Huffing out a sigh, Sherlock rolled his eyes and directed his next words to Rosie. “Your father is mocking me, Rosamund. I do not like it.”

“Aww,” John said. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound very sorry, in Sherlock’s opinion.

“I only meant,” Sherlock said, focusing on the squirming girl in his arms, “that when she’s this small, I worry that every little thing could harm her in some disastrous way. What if she hits her head on the coffee table while crawling and gets a head wound? What if she puts something in her mouth that chokes her?” He wiped Rosie’s nose again. “What if this cold gets worse and she becomes truly sick?”

John didn’t respond right away, so Sherlock had to look up to gauge his reaction. All the teasing had disappeared from John’s face, leaving him wide-eyed with his mouth parted. Sherlock felt incredibly self-conscious all of a sudden.

“Sherlock,” John murmured. “That’s… that’s exactly how I feel, actually.”

“Really?”

John nodded. He moved forward and put his tea on the coffee table. When he sat back, Sherlock swore he was closer to him than before.

“Since the second she was placed into my arms,” John said, “I’ve been terrified. I know exactly what this world is capable of, and I’m scared of my daughter knowing too. She’s too innocent for all that.”

“I know what you mean,” Sherlock replied, relieved he wasn’t being ridiculous.

John stared at him, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he was assessing Sherlock. “You do,” he said after a moment. “You really do. It’s almost like –”

He stopped himself before he could say it, but Sherlock swore he knew what the end of that sentence was supposed to be. _It’s almost like she’s your daughter too._

“If you’d told me when we first met that you would be this good with a baby,” John said instead, his eyes facing forward now, “I would’ve died from laughing so hard.”

“I would tell you to give me more credit,” Sherlock said, wiping Rosie’s nose and willing his heartbeat to return to normal, “but even I know that’s a fair assessment.”

“It’s amazing, though.” John picked up his tea again and stared into it. “How you are with her. I know that if anything ever happened to me, she would be in good hands.”

It took a minute for those words and its implications to fully hit Sherlock. A slight panic gripped his chest at the mere idea.

“Wait,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. “You mean… I would become…”

John was looking at him again, lips pressed together.  He nodded, and Sherlock felt like his world was upended.

“That’s what a godfather is for,” John said. “Mostly. You would be her guardian if I… you know.”

_Guardian._ John trusted him to the point of placing his daughter’s well-being in his hands. Sherlock felt lightheaded, his heart both full and strangely empty. He didn’t understand the latter until he remembered he couldn’t bear to raise Rosie without John by his side.

“Let’s hope nothing of the sort happens,” said Sherlock roughly. “Rosamund needs her father.”

At this, Sherlock noticed John seemed rather unconvinced, which made him frown. John hadn’t said anything self-deprecating in a few days, but that didn’t mean he’d stopped thinking them.

“She does,” Sherlock reiterated. “You’re exactly what she needs.”

John swallowed and nodded. “I know that. I do. I just…” He hesitated, clearly warring with himself over something. Sherlock waited, not wanting to push him. “I… want to be better for her,” he said, finally. “Better than my dad was.”

This took Sherlock by surprise. He had never heard John mention his father before, leading him to believe John didn’t like him much. This was the first time he got explicit confirmation about it, and he didn’t quite know how to handle it.

“How old were you,” Sherlock ventured, “when he died?”

John’s lips quirked into a humorless smirk, like he wasn’t at all shocked that Sherlock knew this. He probably wasn’t. “Seventeen. Liver failure.”

Sherlock hummed. “Alcoholic then.”

“Yep. Harry took after him in that sense. She claimed she wouldn’t, but… well.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how they had gotten to this point. The air between them was now thick with a history Sherlock had never been made privy to and John probably didn’t like reliving. There was an ache in Sherlock’s chest that wanted to know everything about John and where he came from, but he also had a strong desire to keep John from feeling any pain.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Sherlock said, a bit reluctant. John looked at him, and he seemed almost surprised. He set his jaw and shook his head. He leaned forward and set his tea on the coffee table.

“No, I think I do. And I trust you enough to tell you.”

Sherlock couldn’t say anything through the lump in his throat, so he just nodded.

“You’re going to have to ask me something though,” John said. His left hand was kneading his knee. “Because I don’t quite know where to start.”

Sherlock felt like he had far too much power in his hands. Rosie was dozing in his arms, so the room was even quieter than it had been before. It was powerful in an unexpected way.

“Were you and your sister close?” he finally asked. It wasn’t what he was most curious about, but it was a start. A way to ease John in.

“Not really,” John answered. “We’re close in age, but that didn’t make a difference. We just had different interests. We looked out for each other though.”

“What about your mother?”

At this, John cracked a small smile, and Sherlock felt a seed of relief in his stomach. “She was lovely,” John said. “Warm, kind. Everything a mother should be. She loved me and Harry fiercely.”

Sherlock wished he could’ve known her. “She sounds wonderful.”

“She was,” John agreed. His smile faded. “The complete opposite of my father.”

John’s fingers were twisted into a fist now. Sherlock swallowed. “You’ve never talked about him before.”

“I don’t like to. He wasn’t a good man.” John glanced at him, his face blank. “You can probably deduce it.”

Sherlock nodded. He wished he couldn’t, because he hated thinking of someone causing John pain. “You don’t have to say it.”

Rosie snuffled in his arms, and John’s eyes jumped down to her. His expression became wistful.

“But I want you to understand,” John said, so softly.

“Understand what?”

“Why I’m afraid to be her father.” He looked up at Sherlock, and Sherlock’s chest ached at the sadness in his blue eyes. “It all goes back to him.”

“John,” Sherlock murmured. He tightened his left arm around Rosie so he could reach out with his right and smooth out John’s fist. “You are nothing like him.”

“He used to get really drunk,” John said, like Sherlock hadn’t spoken. “And when he was drunk like that, Harry and I would hide in my room with the door locked. Mum would try to keep him away.” He sniffed, and Sherlock’s heart clenched. “She didn’t always succeed.”

_Oh, John…_ Sherlock gripped John’s hand tightly, and John did the same.

“Harry was fifteen when Dad found her in bed with a girl. He threw a fit unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” John’s voice was distant, as though he was lost in his own head. “She had bruises for days.”

Sherlock felt his hatred for John’s father spike.

“That taught me a lesson,” John continued. “Hiding everything about myself was better than being honest and possibly angering him.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, showing his comprehension, then he froze. John’s words sunk in, and his heart began to beat faster. No. No, he had to have misunderstood that. For a moment, it had sounded like John was alluding to his sexuality and implying that he wasn’t straight. It was a strong possibility. Sherlock wanted it to be true. He wanted to press and beg for an explanation.

But then John continued to talk about his childhood, and Sherlock remembered there were far more important things going on.

“We didn’t have much money,” John was saying, “which is why I ended up in the army. My mum was proud of me for enlisting. She died during my first tour.”

“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock said, feeling like he should say _something._ “I didn’t know.”

John let out a chuckle that held no humor. “Of course not, because I never told you.”

“But you’re telling me now.”

John looked at him then, his eyes impossibly, achingly soft. His hold on Sherlock’s hand lessened, but he didn’t let go.

“Yeah,” John murmured. “I think I just wanted you to know. No. I _needed_ you to know.”

That simple sentence sent a tremor through Sherlock’s heart. For the second time that day, he was stunned at the level of trust John put in him, after everything he had done. It was incredible.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. “I’m honored. Truly.”

Rosie made another soft noise, and both John and Sherlock looked down at her. Sherlock couldn’t help but think about how perfect she was, even when she was sick and asleep.

“You’re nothing like him,” Sherlock said, feeling the need to repeat what he said before. “He was full of hate and anger, and you have nothing but good inside of you. Your daughter won’t grow up to fear you. She’ll love you with her whole heart. You have to know that.”

John inhaled shakily. Sherlock could tell he was debating with himself, uncertain about whether or not he should argue against the compliment or not. He squeezed John’s hand, and John’s shoulders sagged.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I needed… that.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “Anytime.”

John looked at him, and his eyes lit up with his smile.

<><><> 

John couldn’t believe he had done that.

His father wasn’t a subject he liked to dwell on ever, but for whatever reason it all came spilling out that afternoon. He should have felt mortified, or upset, but all he felt was…

Relieved.

Relieved, and strangely happy. Maybe it was Sherlock’s presence, but he had felt safe sharing all that with him, safe in a way he had never felt with any therapist in his life. And with Sherlock’s hand in his, he was happy. Having Sherlock beside him made everything easier.

_And why is that?_ a pointed voice asked him. _Why does Sherlock’s presence matter so much?_

He knew he couldn’t avoid thinking about it anymore. These thoughts and feelings were begging to be sorted, and the longer he put it off the more confusing they would become. So that night, after Rosie and Sherlock were tucked away in their rooms, John laid in bed and thought.

Fact: Sherlock was his best friend.

Fact: Sherlock was _more_ than his best friend, he was his family.

Fact: Prior to Rosie being born, Sherlock was arguably the most important person in John’s life. And John once had a wife.

His wedding day was a memory he often returned to, but not because it brought him utter joy. It was because it fueled his confused feelings. Mary had looked beautiful that day and they were supposedly in love, but all John could remember was Sherlock as he gave his best man speech. Sherlock as he said such _wonderful_ things and reduced everyone to tears, John included. Sherlock as he beamed at him from the middle of the dance floor when he learned he was going to be a father.

It was all Sherlock in his mind. Every momentous occasion in his life recently could be tied back to Sherlock, even if it was indirectly. He was almost always thinking about him, and he couldn’t imagine a life without him.

_Oh, God…_ he thought. _Am I really…_

No, he couldn’t be. He could acknowledge that in those days when it was just the two of them at Baker Street, he had developed some feelings, but they fell apart in the aftermath of Sherlock’s fall. He’d met Mary and pushed aside whatever he had felt for Sherlock. And that was how it had been ever since.

At least, he thought so.

Though now… now he wasn’t sure.

“Fuck,” he said.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one would have been up way earlier if it didn't get away from me. I had no idea it was going to be this long, but I'm quite proud of it. I hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Something was wrong with John.

Sherlock noticed it the minute he came downstairs with Rosie. Over the past two – approaching three – weeks, they had established a bit of a routine. They both usually woke up around the time Rosie would, though Sherlock sometimes was up earlier. John would go downstairs to get the coffee going, and Sherlock would go to Rosie and change her diaper (He’d gotten quite good at it, something he was begrudgingly proud of). It always made him smile to see a steaming mug waiting for him on the kitchen table when he and Rosie made it downstairs. Another domestic touch he would miss when his time at the Watson house was up.

Today was no exception with the coffee, but something was amiss. Sherlock’s eyes swept over John, seeking an answer. The dark circles under his eyes told Sherlock he hadn’t gotten much sleep, and the tightness in his mouth signaled something was consuming his thoughts. His hair, more rumpled than normal, indicated he had been tugging on it frequently, and he hadn’t even attempted to take care of his stubble.

Worry crept up Sherlock’s spine as he took in each detail. This couldn’t be good. John hadn’t been like this in at least a week. He had been _healing,_ doing better. The way he looked almost made Sherlock feel like he had stepped back in time. It was simply unacceptable.

However, Sherlock was thrown for a loop when John looked up at him and smiled. The smile wasn’t as easy as it could have been, and the weariness in his eyes didn’t go away, but it was genuine. Sherlock no longer knew what to think. After all this time, John Watson was still a mystery to him.

“Good morning,” Sherlock said slowly. “Sleep okay?” He carried Rosie over to her high chair and settled her in, peering at John over his shoulder as he did.

“Yeah, fine,” John said. He had to have known Sherlock would see right through that, but he made no further effort to convince him. “You?”

“Oh, yes. Perfectly fine.” Sherlock picked up his coffee and saluted John with it. John nodded and tugged on the strap of his sling. It was something he had been doing more often as they approached the day he could finally take it off.

“Not much longer,” Sherlock said, eyeing the sling. A heavy feeling settled in his gut. He had begun to associate the removal of the sling with his leaving John’s house, which made him feel guilty. John clearly wanted it off, and Sherlock wanted him to be happy. It was a good thing. It meant John was finally healed.

It also meant Sherlock’s perfect life was coming to an end.

“Four more days,” John replied, and Sherlock felt like the floor had dropped out from under him.

“Four?” he choked out, then coughed to put his voice back to normal. John looked at him curiously. He added, “I didn’t realize it was so soon.” He thought he had at least five days left.

“Yeah.” John tugged on the strap again. “It’s been three weeks. I should be cleared by my doctor on Wednesday.”

“Oh.” Sherlock took a sip of his scalding coffee to avoid speaking for a moment. He would need to prepare for his departure sooner than he planned. It might be best to distance himself from John over the next few days. He needed to get used to not seeing him every minute of every day.

The mere thought was like an arrow in his chest.

“I bet you can’t wait to get back to Baker Street,” John said, carefully avoiding his gaze. Hurt flashed across Sherlock’s face, and he turned his back so John wouldn’t see, moving to prepare breakfast.

“I suppose I’m looking forward to some things about being home,” Sherlock said with a practiced shrug, pulling out a pan for eggs. “My bed, for example. The prospect of a new experiment.”

“Oh, come on,” John said. “That can’t be all. You adore that place more than anything, and you’ve been away for nearly a month.”

Sherlock set the pan on the stovetop and turned to face John. There was something in John’s eyes that confused Sherlock, and he was afraid to classify it. If he did and he was wrong, he would end up just as he always did: heartbroken and disappointed.

“Is it so absurd,” Sherlock ventured, “to believe I thoroughly enjoy my time here and do not particularly relish the idea of ending it?

He didn’t know why he said it, and the look in John’s eyes changed to something awed and almost wistful. Tearing his gaze away, Sherlock darted to the fridge to get the eggs. The chill from inside soothed his burning cheeks.

It wasn’t until he had returned to the stove with a spatula and was cooking the eggs that John spoke again, and he nearly missed his words over the hissing of the food. He was so glad he didn’t though.

“I miss living with you too, Sherlock.”

Confident the eggs could handle being left alone for a minute, Sherlock slowly pivoted on his heels and faced John. John was staring right at him, which startled Sherlock. He had expected averted eyes.

“Are you surprised?” John asked. Sherlock thought about it, then shook his head.

“We fit well together,” he said. “No one else would tolerate me as a flatmate.”

John snorted. “No one else would tolerate _me_ as a flatmate.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Please. You’re normal. You keep up with the bills, buy milk, clean up the place when necessary. You’re the ideal flatmate.”

“Who sometimes has fits of depression, won’t sleep because of nightmares, and could be classified as an adrenaline junkie.”

He said it lightly, like it didn’t even bother him. Sherlock softened. “Well, we match there.”

John smiled a little. “Which is why we were a good pair.”

The past tense, while appropriate, hurt him. Sherlock looked away, turning back to their breakfast.

“It wasn’t bound to last anyway,” he said, trying to sound dismissive. “Even if I hadn’t…. you would’ve found someone to marry and moved out.”

“You don’t know that.” There was an edge to John’s voice that made him pause. This wasn’t something they had ever talked about, but he had assumed they were both in agreement that John’s place at Baker Street was bound to end at some point. Men like John didn’t go through their lives without finding someone to be with.

He wasn’t like Sherlock.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said. “The past is the past, and we agreed not to dwell on it, yes?”

John was silent, and Sherlock wondered if he had said the wrong thing. He peered over his shoulder, trying to figure it out.

“Sometimes I wonder,” John said slowly, “if even if you hadn’t… if I still would have married Mary.”

The spatula froze in Sherlock’s hand. He stared at the eggs, not comprehending that they were probably on the verge of burning. His whole body was tense.

“Sherlock?” John prompted when a solid minute went by. “Did you hear me?”

Shaking his head, more to clear it than anything else, he took the eggs off the burner and set them aside. He pivoted to face John, who was watching him with a cautious, but unflinching expression.

“What makes you say that?” Sherlock finally asked, unable to resist it.

John tugged on his sling strap. “It’s always been something I wondered. Ever since my wedding day.”

“But why?”

John shrugged. “She made me happy, yeah, but it wasn’t a complete happiness. It’s hard to explain.”

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “Try to.”

With a sigh, John continued, “After you… jumped… I was a mess. Worse than before you met me, barely living.” Sherlock suddenly regretted what he said. It hurt to hear John say this. “Mary made things bearable. She made me feel more like a person. Like I could live for something. But the way she made me happy… it wasn’t the happiest I’ve ever been. I know how happy I can be, what absolute happiness feels like, and I didn’t have that with her.”

Sherlock had always suspected this, but he never voiced it. Part of the reason for it was he didn’t want to ruin John’s happiness any more than he already had. He also didn’t want to give John the opportunity to kick him out of his life.

Now, he would always wonder what life would be like if he actually had spoken up. Would John have moved back to Baker Street? Would they have gotten the life they shared together back?

Sherlock had never realized just how painful ‘what ifs’ could be until he had met John.

“Okay,” Sherlock said after realizing he had been quiet for too long. “Then what is absolute happiness to you? If you know what it is, then you should find it again.”

John met Sherlock’s eyes, and Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. There was a nervousness in John’s gaze, but there was a bit of hopefulness too that took Sherlock by surprise. John looked terrified, but certain.

“Baker Street,” John said. “With you. That’s what makes me truly happy.”

Now the air had been knocked from his lungs. Sherlock hadn’t anticipated that answer, and it left him dazed and thrilled, like he’d been electrocuted. He was certain he was gaping at John, though he couldn’t be arsed to care.

“Oh,” was all he could say.

“Oh?” John echoed, the anxiety growing in his eyes. Sherlock closed his mouth and hastened to reply.

“Oh,” he said again, and he internally smacked himself. “That’s – rather nice.”

It was honestly the worst kind of answer, as it didn’t nearly encapsulate everything he was feeling, but he couldn’t form the proper words. They were all jumbled up in his mind and trying to string them together was impossible. Thankfully, John seemed to understand. His lips quirked up, and the anxiety faded from his expression.

“You think so?” he asked, his voice lightly teasing.

“I do,” Sherlock said, taking the moment to compose himself. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “As we established before, I am an excellent flatmate.”

His words had their intended effect, as John laughed. Sherlock smiled, feeling a lightness spread through him. John was happy with _him._ John believed he was the source of his happiness. It didn’t matter that John only thought of him as a friend; this was more than he could have ever hoped for.

Rosie smacked her tiny fist against the tray of her high chair, reminding them that she was quite hungry and still very present. Sherlock brushed a quick kiss over her head (something he hadn’t planned to do, but still let happen) and started preparing her bottle.

“I don’t know what this means,” John said, reaching out to touch Rosie’s hand. “I don’t know what to do about it. But it – it was something else I needed you to know.”

Sherlock wanted to say that he had a solution, that all John needed to do was _come home,_ but he didn’t want to ruin the happy mood they had going with something that John might not be ready to fully consider. It was something they could discuss later, after John was completely healed. Instead, he just served John his breakfast and said, “I appreciate you telling me. It makes me very happy.”

The last part was said shyly, and it earned him a frankly adorable smile in return. It caused something to flare in his stomach, something he had been trying so very hard to suppress.

Hope.

<><><> 

The rest of their morning passed peacefully, with John reading the paper and Sherlock feeding Rosie. After breakfast, Sherlock did the dishes while John played with Rosie in the sitting room. Sherlock could hear their laughter over the sound of the running water, and it brought a smile to his face. They sounded so happy. It meant the world to him.

Once the dishes were finished, Sherlock joined them in the other room, and that was when their whole day was upended. He was watching John wave the stuffed dog in front of Rosie when the doorbell rang. Both men stiffened and looked at each other.

“Expecting anyone?” John asked, which was kind of ridiculous considering how it was _his_ home. Sherlock shook his head, and John frowned. He didn’t know who was at the door either. It made Sherlock nervous, especially when he considered how unprepared they were for any sort of attack, if the person ringing the doorbell was who he thought it was. They were both in their pajamas, John still had his sling, and Rosie was sitting on the floor in front of them.

Because he was afraid his sister was on the other side of the door. He had let his guard down again and ignored the possibility of her coming right for them, and now she could be standing there, waiting to enact her next move.

“Take Rosamund,” said Sherlock, rising from the couch in one fluid motion, “and go out the back door.”

“Sherlock –” John shoved himself up, scowling at how difficult it was to do with one hand and bad knees. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Someone needs to keep Rosie safe –”

John grabbed his arm. “But who will keep _you_ safe?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, and he opened his mouth to reply when he was cut off by a voice from the other side of the door.

“John? Sherlock? You home?”

Both men exhaled, their shoulders dropping. Sherlock strode to the door and flung it open, revealing Lestrade. He held a thick file in his hands and had a wary expression on his face.

“You scared us half to death, Greg,” John said.

“Sorry,” replied Lestrade, coming inside after Sherlock gave him the space to do so. “I would’ve called ahead, but I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over him, taking everything in as they always did. It was immediately apparent why he was there, and it made Sherlock’s stomach turn with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he accused Lestrade, eyes narrowing. “How long has the case been on?” John’s eyebrows rose.

Lestrade sighed, not at all surprised. “Two weeks now. I didn’t want to involve you because of –” He waved a hand around vaguely. Sherlock rolled his eyes and snatched the file from Lestrade’s hands. He flicked it open and scanned the pages and photographs inside. His pulse quickened as he took in all the information, a telltale sign of a thrilling case.

“Two _weeks,_ ” he breathed, “and you chose to _not_ tell me about this?”

“You were a bit busy,” Lestrade snapped. “And I’m capable of solving a case on my own, thanks.”

“Mm, clearly,” Sherlock said, eyes never leaving the file. “Hence why you’re here seeking my assistance.”

John coughed and shot Sherlock a reproving look that he could practically feel. With a sigh, he snapped the file shut and looked at Lestrade. “Go ahead and ask me to help.”

“Sherlock,” John said in warning. “Don’t be rude.”

“No no,” said Lestrade, rubbing his eyes. Sherlock deduced he hadn’t gotten more than three hours of sleep in two – no, three – days. “I need his help. I’m really sorry to be doing this with everything going on, but if the pattern holds, we’ll have another body by tomorrow morning.”

“Christ, it’s really that bad?” John looked horrified.

“I cannot believe you didn’t tell me about this sooner,” Sherlock said, going through the file again. “This is at least an eight, nearing a nine. We had _lunch_ together and you didn’t say anything!”

“Because you’ve _been busy,_ ” Lestrade said. He gave Sherlock a meaningful look and nodded towards Rosie, who was staring up at him with her usual childlike interest. The reminder made Sherlock’s stomach drop like a rock.

He couldn’t go on a case. He had to help take care of Rosie. He was a bit disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to get out and investigate, but not as much as he usually would be. There was something about spending the day with Rosie and John that almost seemed preferable to working.

Though this case was _really_ interesting.

“I can give you my theories,” Sherlock said, trying to tamp down on his enthusiasm for the case. “I can already tell you you’re looking for a woman, not a man like I know you have been. She’s thrown you off by using a knife, not typically a female serial killer’s weapon of choice, which is intentional.”

Lestrade nodded and pulled out a small notepad. He jotted the information down. “What else can you give me?”

John came to stand by Sherlock’s shoulder and peered over at the file. His eyes widened at its contents. “Sherlock, you can’t stay here, not with a case like this. You have to go with him and investigate.”

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. “No, I can’t. I have to stay here and help you.”

John raised his eyebrows. “You can’t seriously tell me you’d rather stay here all day than go solve these murders. The world may be ending if you do.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t matter what I’d rather be doing. I came here to help you, and that is what I am going to do.” Though he hadn’t been on a proper case in ages, and he was desperate to go on this one, even if he wouldn’t have his faithful partner by his side.

John’s face softened at that, and he laid a hand on Sherlock’s arm. Lestrade coughed and averted his gaze. “That’s sweet of you, really, but I’ll be okay. My shoulder doesn’t hurt all that much anymore, so I can manage Rosie. And if I need help, I’ll call Molly.” He squeezed Sherlock’s arm gently. “You’re needed elsewhere today.”

Sherlock bit his lip. He knew John was right, but he was still unwilling to leave them behind, especially since he only had a few more days with them. He had wanted to soak up every minute. With the way John was looking at him, though, he didn’t really have a choice.

“You’ll call Molly?” he asked. John smiled and nodded.

“Promise. We’ll be fine. Don’t worry about us.”

“Impossible not to,” Sherlock replied, and John’s smile widened. “I’ll be back by Rosamund’s bedtime.”

There was something achingly domestic about this whole exchange that had Sherlock feeling wistful. The look on John’s face suggested he was thinking the same thing. He let his hand fall from Sherlock’s arm and stepped back.

“Tonight, then,” he said. Sherlock nodded and handed the file back to Lestrade, who pretended like he didn’t hear everything they had just said.

“Let me just change,” Sherlock said, and headed upstairs to get dressed. When he was halfway up the stairs, he heard Lestrade say, “I’ll look after him.”

John’s reply made his chest warm. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

<><><> 

Rosie’s bedtime was two hours ago, and Sherlock wasn’t back.

John tried to tell himself that he was safe, that everything was okay, and that he was probably just caught up in the case. He knew Sherlock well enough to know that the man sometimes could get so involved with the mystery that he stopped caring about anything else. Quite frankly, that would be the most normal thing to happen to either of them in weeks. It should be a relief.

It was the exact opposite of a relief.

Molly had stuck around long enough to help John get Rosie to bed, which he appreciated immensely (At this rate, he owed Molly an all-expense-paid vacation). She had offered to stay until Sherlock returned, but John waved her off, insisting he would be fine and that he just wanted to turn in for the night. That earned him a sympathetic smile from Molly, as though she knew he was lying. She probably did.

Because of course he couldn’t just go to bed when Sherlock was out on a case, possibly getting himself injured or worse (John didn’t want to consider worse). Back in the old days, in those rare times when he didn’t accompany Sherlock on a case, he would have no qualms about going to bed if he had an early shift the next morning or if he was just exhausted. Now, though, he doubted he would’ve been able to sleep even if he tried to. His stomach was roiling with anxiety, and he kept checking his phone for any new texts or calls.

His tea had gotten cold long ago, but he had no desire to make a new cup. The television was on to a dull soap opera. He wasn’t watching it; he only wanted the background noise.

For the sixth time in the past half-hour, John rose from the couch and walked to the front window. Reaching up with his left hand, he parted the curtains and looked outside, hoping to see his mad detective ambling up the front walk.

The street was just as empty as it had been the last time he looked.

With a heavy sigh, he returned to the couch, pulling out his phone as he sat down. He’d tried calling both Lestrade and Sherlock and got no response. It hadn’t helped his worry at all. There was an excellent chance their phones had died, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something far worse.

The fact that this was happening the day after John reached the conclusion that he just might have feelings for Sherlock did not help things at all. He suspected it was the main reason why he was so jittery and anxious. It would be incredibly poor timing if he decided he was in love with Sherlock just as something dreadful happened to him.

_But then I suppose it would be fitting for us,_ he thought. _After everything._

The night before, he’d only gotten a few hours of sleep because he was thinking about Sherlock and how he felt about him. For the longest time, his thoughts just went around in circles, but eventually he reached a conclusion: He was definitely attracted to Sherlock, and if he wasn’t completely in love with him, he was probably falling.

He was not sure what to do with that information. Sherlock was in love with him, which theoretically should make things easier, but it didn’t. What if John told Sherlock he had feelings for him, and then realized a month later he actually didn’t? Their friendship would be ruined, but even worse, Sherlock’s heart would be broken. John would rather get shot again than hurt Sherlock.

After all the tossing and turning of the previous night, he decided to keep things to himself and wait to see if anything changed. He wasn’t going to rush into this and mess it up. Sherlock was too important to him for that.

Of course, all of that would be moot if Sherlock didn’t come home.

“Come on, you madman,” he murmured, tearing his gaze from the widow yet again. “Come back to me.”

He shuffled to the kitchen to switch his lukewarm tea out for some water. His eyes jumped to the cupboard above the oven, where his scotch was still stashed. He hadn’t brought it out since Sherlock had moved in, primarily because he didn’t feel the need to have it. Sherlock had a way of silencing the thoughts inside his head that he wanted to dull with alcohol. It was like his superpower, one he didn’t even know he had. John was grateful for it.

Now, though, the thought of a drink was tempting.

His fingers twitched at his side. One couldn’t hurt…

The sound of a key being shoved into a lock made him jump. He automatically tensed – a habit from his army days when he would hear sudden noises – then felt crushing relief. He strode out of the kitchen to the sitting room just in time for the front door to swing open.

Sherlock staggered in, and at first glance he seemed perfectly normal. Dark curls mussed, no doubt having had hands run through them countless times over the course of the day. Pale skin, bright eyes, Belstaff wrapped around a thin frame. John felt a smile spread across his face.

It faded seconds later when he took in the minute details. His skin was too pale, and he was standing unevenly, like he was supporting most of his weight on his left side. His right arm was pressed tightly to his side, and there was a grimace on his face.

“What happened?” It was the only sentence John could form in that moment, because he was too worried to say anything else.

Sherlock started, and John realized he hadn’t noticed him. His worry rose even more. If _Sherlock_ hadn’t seen something that was _right in front of him,_ there was something very wrong.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice even and blank in a way that told John he was working hard to make it so. “I didn’t realize you were still awake. You didn’t need to stay up for me.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if I tried,” said John, moving closer. “You said you would be home by Rosie’s bedtime and you weren’t. Then you wouldn’t answer your phone…”

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock said. “It died. A tragedy, really, but couldn’t be helped.” He forced a smile onto his face and took a few more steps into the room. It only made his awkward walk more pronounced. “I appreciate your concern, but right now I rather think I just need some sleep. So good night and –”

“Sherlock.” John slid into his path, stopping Sherlock from going any further. “I know you think I’m an idiot, but I’m not so much of one that I can’t tell when you’re hurt.”

Sherlock shifted on his feet and winced. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

“Not the point.” John moved until he was close enough to smell Sherlock’s scent – sweat and blood, a combination he was not a fan of – and dipped his head to try and assess the damage. “Tell me what happened.”

“It’s not really –”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John said, staying remarkably calm despite his twisting insides, “I just spent the past few hours agonizing over you. I think I deserve an explanation, and if my assumptions are correct, you need your wounds treated. The sooner you agree, the sooner we can both go to bed.”

He looked up into Sherlock’s eyes and saw the moment when he accepted his fate. With a nod toward the kitchen, John turned and went upstairs, where he fetched the first aid kit from under his bathroom sink. When he returned downstairs, Sherlock had taken his coat off and was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs.

The right side of his dress shirt was stained with blood. Only years of seeing far more gruesome sights stopped John from reacting. He set the kit on the table and sat in the chair next to Sherlock.

“Do try to remember that you only have one hand available for use,” said Sherlock dryly. John glared at him and opened the kit with said hand.

“Take off your shirt and start talking,” he ordered. His Captain Watson voice slid in a bit, and he saw Sherlock’s spine straighten before he complied. It made him grin a little.

“It took a few hours,” Sherlock began as he unbuttoned his shirt, “but I eventually constructed a profile of the killer. All of the previous victims would frequent support groups, but never the same ones, which made it hard to find connections. The killer would attend a new support group each week and pick her prey.”

“What kind of support groups did she go to?” John didn’t care much about the finer details of this case, but hearing Sherlock’s voice after hours of panic soothed him a great deal.

“All kinds. Cancer, recovering alcoholics, grieving the loss of a spouse.” He glanced uncertainly at John before focusing back on his shirt. “She got off on other people’s pain.”

“That’s awful,” John murmured. Sherlock merely nodded and pushed his shirt off. It fell behind him, trapped between the back of the chair and his body. There was a bloody gash marring his pale skin, though it thankfully wasn’t too long, just an inch at the most. John took a gauze pad from the kit and carried it over to the sink, where he turned the tap on and got the gauze wet. He returned to Sherlock’s side after turning the water back off.

“Continue,” he prompted.

“Once I deduced all that, Lestrade sent out several officers to different groups around the city. He and I went to one for gambling addictions. It was tedious, but it was the right one. I worked out who it was within three minutes. She looked far too happy to be there, and her shoes and necklace were too nice for someone who allegedly lost all her money gambling.”

“Brilliant,” John murmured. Sherlock’s lips curved up briefly, though they slammed back down in displeasure when John started to clean the wound. “Go on.”

“She picked up that we were onto her and tried to run away. We chased him, but I was faster and cornered her in an alley. I started talking to her, waiting for her to confess to the murders. I didn’t even see the knife until she jammed it into my side.”

John pursed his lips. “I changed my mind. Not very brilliant.”

Sherlock made a noise of indignation that was tinged with pain. “I still was able to –”

“Stop. You could’ve gotten yourself killed, Sherlock. You need to be more careful.” Most of the blood on his side seemed to be dry, so he was able to wipe it away easily. John peered at the gash. “How deep did the knife go? It doesn’t seem too bad.”

“It isn’t,” Sherlock grumbled. “It didn’t go very far before I punched her.”

“Well done, you. You really did a good job there.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I wasn’t more careful and I’m sorry I worried you.”

John’s hand stilled, and he looked up at Sherlock. It was rare that his irritated comments got an apology out of Sherlock, especially when they pertained to how he behaved during a case. What was more, he could tell the apology was sincere. He was actually rather touched.

“It’s okay,” said John. “I’m just glad you’re safe now.”

Without thinking, he let his fingers stroke Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock inhaled sharply. John withdrew his hand immediately.

“Sorry,” he said, his cheeks warm. “I’ll just, uh, put a bandage on. That’s all it needs.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, slightly strangled.

John reached over and grabbed a square bandage from the kit. It was a bit awkward, putting it on Sherlock with one hand, but he managed it, careful not to touch too much of his skin again. He pressed the edges lightly with his fingertips, ensuring it would stay on.

“Just be careful with it,” he said. “I’ll check it again in the morning.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

Sherlock met his eyes. The air between them suddenly felt too thick. A weird sensation was coiling in John’s gut, making his skin tingle. It became hard to breathe. It was too much, so John looked away, towards Sherlock’s torso.

Something caught his eye. A thin, raised line, stretching from Sherlock’s back toward the front. It didn’t make it very far onto his side, but it was still visible from where John was sitting.

“What’s that?” He leaned to the side so he could get a better look. All of the muscles in Sherlock’s upper body tensed.

“John, don’t –”

John stopped breathing. His chest felt tight. It was almost like the feeling from moments before, only it was far more unpleasant now.

“Where,” John said slowly, shakily, “did you get these?”

Sherlock’s back was covered in scars. White lines crisscrossing the skin, forming a horrific, sickening piece of art.

John wasn’t an idiot. He knew exactly what they were. At some point in Sherlock’s life, he had been whipped. Repeatedly. Possibly within an inch of his life. For an indeterminate amount of time, he had borne those scars under his clothes, hidden away from the world.

Hidden away from John.

“They’re nothing,” Sherlock said. “Don’t concern yourself with them.” He spoke in that detached way that John knew meant he was tucking his emotions away, never to be properly sorted through. He was familiar with the tactic. But they were better than that now. He couldn’t let Sherlock do that to himself.

“Please, Sherlock,” he whispered. “Tell me.”

Sherlock sucked in a breath. John waited, his eyes tracing every single scar that marred that perfect body.

“Serbia,” Sherlock said. His head was held high, his gaze straight ahead. He kept the detached tone, though it was wavering. “I was held captive there. For a time.”

“When were you in Serbia?” John tried to think back to a time when Sherlock could have been there long enough to have sustained those injuries. He found an answer the same moment Sherlock confirmed it.

“When I was away. After I jumped.”

Nausea swirled up in him. His left hand curled around the edge of his chair, gripping it so tightly he was surprised he didn’t break it.

“This is what happened to you when you were dead?”

The last word fell heavily between them. Sherlock sucked in another breath. John blinked harshly, suddenly aware of the tears gathering in his eyes.

”Yes,” whispered Sherlock. John closed his eyes.

Only one image presented itself in his mind. Him and Sherlock, in the restaurant on the night Sherlock returned. Him clenching his fist in anger.

Him knocking Sherlock to the ground. Onto his back.

Repeatedly.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Sherlock spoke, but he was brought back to the present by the gentle touch of a hand on top of his. He opened his eyes and looked up into Sherlock’s wide ones. John still found it hard to breathe.

“Please don’t cry over this,” Sherlock said. “It’s okay.”

John wrenched his hand away from Sherlock’s and wiped his eyes. “It’s not bloody _okay,_ ” he spat, feeling sobs bubbling up. “You were _beaten_ and _scarred_ , and I _attacked_ you.”

“You didn’t know,” Sherlock insisted. “You couldn’t have. You had every right to be upset with me.”

“But I –”

“Stop.” Sherlock was firm, and almost angry. “I don’t want to cause you any more pain. I don’t want to _feel_ any more pain. What we did in the past is done. We must move on. Remember? We promised to do that. Don’t back out on me now.”

John sniffed and wiped his nose. It took him another couple minutes to fully compose himself, but Sherlock was patient. He didn’t say anything, letting John have some time with his thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” John said finally, when his tears were gone and his breathing had normalized. “I’m rubbish at controlling my emotions.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, trying for some levity. It got John to give a small, wry smile. Then he looked back at the scars.

“They still haunt you.” He didn’t phrase it like a question because he didn’t need to. He already knew.

Sherlock shifted in his chair and pulled his shirt back on. John could breathe easier when the scars were hidden from him. “Yes,” said Sherlock, focusing intently on his buttons. “Just like I suspect your shoulder haunts you.”

“Past wounds tend to do that.” John bit his lip and touched Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s hands stilled on his buttons. “The key is not letting them define you.”

“You sound like a self-help book.”

John huffed a laugh. “You’d be surprised by how useful those can be.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked up. He hesitated, then brought one of his hands up to rest over John’s.

“Will you tell me the next time they’re bothering you?” John asked. Sherlock looked at him, and John was bowled over at the amount of trust he saw there.

“I will. I promise.”

John smiled his thanks, and Sherlock smiled back. That simple curve of lips erased all the heartache that had preceded it.

And that was when John knew. He wasn’t falling for Sherlock.

He had already fallen. Hard.


	13. Chapter 13

_Oh God, oh God, oh_ God.

How could he have been so stupid?

After his sudden realization, John had choked out a flimsy excuse about being exhausted and fled upstairs. It had taken every ounce of self-preservation that he had not to look back at Sherlock, because he was certain that if he did he would lose it. He made a beeline for his bedroom and shut the door firmly behind him.

Then he lingered there and waited to hear Sherlock’s footsteps come upstairs and disappear into the guest room.

He was in love with Sherlock. Completely, totally, head-over-heels _in love_ with him. Thinking about it now, as he laid in bed staring at the ceiling, it all made perfect sense. The strong desire to touch Sherlock in any way possible while they made breakfast in the mornings. The rush of affection he would feel during quiet nights in front of the telly, when he would look over and see Sherlock relaxed and unguarded. The pain he felt whenever Sherlock brushed off their closeness. Hell, he even finally understood his feelings toward Irene Adler and why she bothered him so much.

 _I’m not gay,_ he had said. He’d said it many times. It technically wasn’t a lie, as he did fancy women. But he knew the implication those words had, and he hid behind it for years. He let Sherlock believe he was straight, and he couldn’t help but think that if he had only told Sherlock the truth all those years ago, they could have avoided a great deal of pain.

“Christ,” he whispered aloud, rubbing his face. The past was supposed to stay in the past, as he and Sherlock promised, but that didn’t mean he did a good job of keeping it there.

He needed to think of what to do next. He was in love with Sherlock and Sherlock was in love with him, so it would make sense for them to start a relationship. The mere thought made John’s stomach flip. Then he and Rosie could move into Baker Street, and they could become a proper family. Rosie would take his old room upstairs, and he would stay in Sherlock’s room. They could wake up every morning in each other’s arms, exchange casual touches while making breakfast, Rosie would call Sherlock Papa…

John blinked and realized his eyes were damp. He wanted all of it so badly, but he was getting ahead of himself. Everything was still so new, and he had to think it through before he started anything. For all he knew, Sherlock had given up on him and moved on. Considering it broke his heart, but it was a possibility.

Though, based on how things had been going between them lately, he doubted it.  Still, he wanted to be sure, and asking Sherlock outright seemed like an awful idea.

 _Greg,_ he thought. _Greg would know._

That would be his first move, he decided. He would ask Greg for advice. First thing tomorrow, when Sherlock would be preoccupied with Rosie.

Pleased with himself, John turned onto his left side and settled in to sleep. And if he dreamt of a certain curly-haired genius, it only made his night better.

<><><> 

Despite his desperation, John didn’t get the opportunity to call Greg until the following night. Sherlock had proposed another day at the park, and even though John believed Sherlock should be resting because of his wound, he allowed it. He suspected that Sherlock suggested it because he was growing depressed at the thought of leaving the Watson home. The thought both saddened and pleased John. He hated anything that made Sherlock upset, but it was a little gratifying to know that Sherlock didn’t want to leave them.

Though, if John had anything to do with it, they wouldn’t be separated for very long.

“Joining us for bath time?” Sherlock asked, Rosie perched on his hip. Normally John would sit on the toilet while Sherlock bathed Rosie. Not being able to participate was difficult, but he enjoyed watching. Nothing amused him more than seeing Sherlock get covered in bathwater due to Rosie’s excited splashing.

“Not tonight,” replied John, feigning nonchalance. Sherlock’s brows furrowed. “I just need to take care of something.”

“Something,” Sherlock repeated. “What something? You don’t have a something.”

“How would you know?”

Rosie tugged on one of Sherlock’s unruly curls, and he absentmindedly batted her hand away. “I’ve been with you for nearly every moment of every day for three weeks. You don’t have a something.”

John suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. If he didn’t love this man so much…

“It’s not a big deal. Just go give Rosie her bath. I’ll join you when I can.”

Sherlock eyed him for another moment before going upstairs. John could hear him speaking to Rosie as he carried her into the bathroom. He waited until he heard the water running before pulling out his phone and calling Lestrade.

“I expected you to call sooner,” said Lestrade as soon as he picked up. “Hell, I expected a call last night.”

“What? Why?”

Lestrade sounded surprised. “Did Sherlock not tell you? About how the case ended?”

Sherlock’s bloody torso flashed in John’s mind. “Oh, right. No, I know about it.  I patched him up when he got home.”

“I want to say sorry,” Lestrade said, and John could practically picture his remorseful face. “I said I was going to watch out for him, and I didn’t do a great job.”

“Whoa, hey.” John sat up straighter on the couch. “It wasn’t your fault, I’m sure. We both know how Sherlock can get when he’s on a case. We don’t call him a madman for nothing. I know you did your best.”

“You’re taking this awfully well.”

John swallowed and glanced toward the stairs. He could hear faint splashing and giggling. “Yeah, well, that’s actually the reason I’m calling.”

“What is it?”

“So, I realized something last night…”

There was silence as Lestrade waited for him to finish his thought. John’s mouth was dry. It was one thing to say it in his head, but it was another to say it aloud to someone. It made it real. There was no taking it back once he told someone.

“John?” prompted Lestrade.

“I’m in love with Sherlock.” His eyes jumped to the stairs, certain Sherlock had heard even though he whispered it. But there was no one downstairs except for him. The water was still running. Rosie was still laughing.

Lestrade was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “It’s about bloody time you’ve realized it.”

John blinked. “What? You mean you _knew_?”

Lestrade laughed. “John, I’m pretty sure the only people who didn’t know were you and Sherlock. You’re both brilliant, but you’re incredibly thick when it comes to each other.”

Sagging against the couch, John shook his head. “I know. I’m a colossal idiot. I don’t know how it’s taken me so long to see it, but I finally get it.”

“Look, I’m happy for you,” said Lestrade sincerely. “He’s good for you, and you’re good for him.”

“But does he still feel the same way?” John asked, feeling some anxiety creep up. This was what he had been trying to gauge all day. Whether or not he still had a chance.

“It’s not really my place to say,” Lestrade admitted. “I don’t want to betray his trust.”

“Oh.” John bit his lip. “Yeah, of course.” He wanted to fidget with his sling but couldn’t. It was frustrating.

“But…” Lestrade said slowly. John’s heart rose. “I can tell you that if you were honest with him, and told him how you feel, you might be rewarded.”

“Might? That’s not reassuring.”

“Just trust me,” said Lestrade.

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I trust you,” he said. “Thanks, Greg.”

“No one deserves happiness more than you guys.” John smiled at that. “After all you’ve been through, you two need some rest.”

“Hopefully together,” John said, his heart warming at the thought. “I’m going to ask to move back into Baker Street with him.”

“I could say I’m surprised, but I don’t want to lie.” John snorted. Lestrade’s voice was serious when he spoke next. “Are you sure you’re both ready for that?”

“It’s not going to happen tomorrow,” said John. “I don’t mind if it takes us another year to reach that point, just as long as it happens eventually. I don’t want to live without him anymore. We’ve spent too long apart.”

“Now I really know you’re in love,” Lestrade said. “I’ve never heard you get this soppy.”

John chuckled. “I know, I kind of hate it.”

“No you don’t.”

Upstairs, John could hear the bathtub draining itself and Sherlock’s deep voice rumbling. He thought he could burst with all the emotions he had inside.

“No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”

<><><> 

It took every ounce of John’s self-control not to run upstairs and declare his love to Sherlock right then and there. They had waited long enough to be happy together, and he didn’t want to waste another minute.

But he also wanted to make it special. It was what Sherlock deserved. He had never experienced true love, never had anyone make a grand gesture for him. John was determined to be the one to show Sherlock Holmes that he was loved and wanted, and he couldn’t just tell him so while Sherlock was drying off a freshly-washed baby.

 _Dinner,_ he decided, excitement bubbling in his stomach as he got ready for bed. _I’ll make him dinner._ It wasn’t the biggest gesture a person could do, but he didn’t think Sherlock would want him to hang a giant banner from Big Ben that said “I LOVE YOU, SHERLOCK.” No, a simple dinner for the two of them would do.

This meant he had to wait a few more days for his sling to come off, but that was fine (Excruciating, but fine). It would give him the time he needed to prepare what he wanted to say.

In the days leading up, John was constantly bowled over with the sheer amount of emotion that rushed through his body every time he so much as looked at Sherlock. It was like a floodgate had been opened within him, and there was no hope of closing it. How he didn’t realize it sooner was beyond him, but there was no use in lamenting all the lost time. All he could do now was ensure they didn’t lose any more.

The night before he was to get his sling removed, he could tell Sherlock was trying and failing to stop himself from being sad. It was in the way his face would shutter every time he looked away from John, and in the pained creases by his eyes whenever Rosie reached for him. There was once a time when John wouldn’t have been able to tell what Sherlock was thinking (It had only been a month ago, shockingly), but now he could read him like an open book. It was plain to see: Sherlock didn’t want to leave.

John ached to tell him the truth, to stop the pain he was experiencing, but he forced himself to stay strong. He had plans. He couldn’t ruin them, not when they were so close to completion.

“Sherlock?” he asked. They were sitting in front of the telly, Rosie slowly nodding off on Sherlock’s lap. Sherlock had initially tried to avoid holding her, but John gave him a look and stuck her in his arms.

“Mm?”

John glanced over and saw Sherlock was looking down at Rosie with the fondest expression he had ever seen. It made his mouth go dry.

“Stay one more night.”

Sherlock looked up, surprised. “What?”

“Instead of leaving tomorrow, stay for one more night.”  John worked to keep his fingers from clenching into a fist out of anxiety. His eyes stayed locked with Sherlock’s wide, bright ones.

“Why? You won’t need me,” Sherlock said, his brows furrowing just slightly. John wanted to smooth them out. He wanted to tell Sherlock that _no, I’ll always need you, please don’t go._

But. Plans.

“I want to thank you for everything you’ve done by making you dinner,” he said. “And it’ll just be easier for you if you don’t have to travel back to Baker Street.”

He could see the gears turning in Sherlock’s head as he processed both the request and just how much prolonging his departure could hurt him. His heart hammered in his chest.

“Alright,” said Sherlock, finally. “I’ll stay.” He grinned. “But only because I’m tired of cooking for you while you sit around and do nothing. It’s time things were reversed.”

John laughed, his shoulders relaxing. “And I’m sure you’ll nitpick everything I do.”

“Only because you did the same,” Sherlock replied. He stood, cradling a now-sleeping Rosie to his chest. He then said, with an obviously forced casual air, “Shall I come back down after?”

John nodded and smiled at him. “I would love it if you did.”

Sherlock’s cheeks got a pink tinge, and he quickly darted upstairs. John leaned back on the couch, already envisioning the next night.

He hoped it would be magical. They both deserved that much.

<><><> 

Sherlock was only a little bit confused. John’s explanation for having him stay an additional night made sense, but it didn’t explain the obvious anxiety he had been feeling when he asked. John probably thought he was being inconspicuous, but Sherlock knew how to read him. He could see the tension in his shoulders and left hand, and the way his eyes were resolutely focused on Sherlock’s, like he was forcing himself not to look away.

Something was clearly up. He just didn’t know what.

That next morning, Sherlock accompanied John and Rosie to the doctor’s office and waited while the doctor checked over John’s shoulder one last time. There was no doubt that John would be cleared, but he still found himself hoping that maybe, just _maybe_ , he wouldn’t be.

And then John emerged from the office with two open arms and no sling.

“Da!” Rosie squealed, squirming so energetically in Sherlock’s arms that he nearly dropped her. He rose from his chair and carried her to John.

“Ready?” he asked softly. John nodded, and Sherlock transferred Rosie into John’s arms. His chest got tight as he watched John close his eyes and bury his nose in Rosie’s hair.

“All better now,” murmured John. Rosie slung her arms around John’s neck and burrowed close.

 _This moment doesn’t belong to you,_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like his brother sounded in his mind. Sherlock looked away from the father and daughter pair, even as he ached to wrap his arms around the both of them.

“Shall I get the car?” he asked instead. John opened his eyes, and Sherlock could have sworn there was a hint of wistfulness in them.

“I was going to offer to drive,” said John, “but I don’t think I’m ready to let her go just yet.”

Sherlock smiled a little. “I wouldn’t expect any less. Let’s go home.”

The word slipped out before he could process it, let alone stop it. John’s head shot up, his eyes wide. Even Rosie seemed to understand the weight of the moment, for she stilled and looked at Sherlock.

The lights in the waiting room seemed far too bright. Sherlock swallowed hard. “I’ll – I’ll just get the car then,” he choked out. He didn’t even wait to see if John was following as he fled the office.

 _Careless,_ he thought, his mental voice finally his own instead of Mycroft’s. _How could I be so careless?_ This was exactly what he wanted to avoid: getting too comfortable. He knew it would be a temporary situation, and yet he still let himself imagine he had a place in the Watson household. He got caught up in the fantasy, and now he would be extra devastated tomorrow when he returned to 221B.

He just hoped it wouldn’t be a Danger Night. He didn’t know if he would be able to cope alone.

The ride back to the Watson house was quiet, but thankfully not awkward. John sat in the back with Rosie in his lap, clearly enjoying being able to hold her properly for the first time in weeks. At stoplights, Sherlock couldn’t resist looking back at them. The fondness in John’s expression was breathtaking.

They spent the rest of the day playing with Rosie and ignoring Sherlock’s impending departure. As the hours ticked by, Sherlock noticed John was getting increasingly anxious, almost similar to the way he had seemed the day before when he asked Sherlock to stay. He nearly asked him what was wrong, but every time he was about to, John would smile at him, and Sherlock would think maybe he was imagining it.

Just after five, John kissed Rosie’s head and stood up. The three of them had been sitting on the floor and rolling a ball back and forth. Sherlock would have once thought it tedious, but Rosie’s delight made it fun.

“I’m going to start dinner,” John announced, smoothing his hands on the front of his trousers. Sherlock had noticed that John had been using his right hand a lot, as if he was relishing once again having it available to him. It made Sherlock happy to see him whole again.

“What are we eating?”

John licked his lower lip, something Sherlock absolutely did not pay close attention to. “Shepherd’s pie.”

Sherlock blinked. “That’s my favorite meal.”

“I know.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it. He couldn’t recall any time he had actually _told_ John this, but he supposed that on the rare occasions when John had made it back when they lived together, the fact that he would eat it without complaint or force must have been an indicator that he was fond of it. But for John to remember it and make it for him now…

“Just keep an eye on her, will you?” asked John. Sherlock nodded, uncertain of what else to say. John flashed him a warm smile and left the room. With a frown, Sherlock looked down at Rosie.

“What is your father planning? He’s baffling me.”

Rosie giggled as if she knew something he didn’t. It was mildly infuriating, since he knew there obviously was no way she could. “Fine, don’t help me. I’ll figure it out.”

He didn’t figure it out. For the next hour, he puzzled over it while keeping Rosie occupied. He knew this dinner was simply John’s way of thanking him for everything, but if that was all, John wouldn’t be so nervous. At least, he hoped he wouldn’t be. He liked to think that after three weeks of living together things between them were finally repaired.

Though, he was a little afraid to see what would happen once they were no longer in the same household.

“Dinner’s ready,” John called.

Sherlock stood and hoisted Rosie up to his hip. She was gnawing on her stuffed dog, her blue eyes massive. For a moment, Sherlock let himself imagine a world where she was his, and they were a family. He closed his eyes and pressed his nose to her hair, just like John had earlier that day.

“I love you,” he whispered. “No matter what, I’ll always be there for you. Always.”

Rosie fisted his shirt in her free hand and made a little gurgling noise. He liked to think she was saying she loved him too.

If John had noticed that simple, perfect moment between his daughter and his best friend, he didn’t comment on it. He instead took Rosie from Sherlock and slipped away while Sherlock looked at the scene before him.

The kitchen table was set, two plates on either side with the still steaming shepherd’s pie at the center. Next to each plate was a glass of red wine. Sherlock already knew it would compliment the food perfectly.

Really, it was a normal dinner spread. It wasn’t unlike some of the dinners they had shared over the past three weeks, with one exception.

The candles.

Sherlock blinked, then blinked again, his eyes fixed on the tiny flames atop the two white candlesticks. He was suddenly reminded of a night, many years ago, when they were just barely acquaintances. A night that would change their lives.

A knock on the front door startled Sherlock out of his swirling thoughts. He turned to see John answering it, Rosie still in his arms.

“Hi, John!” greeted Molly, a bright smile on her face as always. “Hi, Miss Rosie!”

Rosie giggled and turned her face into John’s shoulder. Sherlock was aware of Molly congratulating John on the removal of his sling, but he ignored it in favor of figuring out _what the hell was going on._

“What are you doing here?” he asked, possibly a bit blunter than necessary. Molly didn’t seem bothered though; in fact, she seemed delighted.

“I’m watching Rosie tonight,” she said. She took Rosie from John after John had kissed her head. “Have you got her things ready?”

John nodded and retrieved two diaper bags from the sitting room. Sherlock’s chest seized. His last night at the Watsons and Rosie wouldn’t even be there? He felt like he was being deprived of something precious.

But then his mind flashed back to the candles, and he wondered if he was being given something instead.

“You’ll be good for Aunt Molly?” John was asking Rosie. She was being remarkably calm about the whole situation. In the aftermath of Mary’s death, she had spent many nights with friends while John took the time to grieve. She had never stayed with Sherlock though.

Rosie let loose a stream of garbled sounds that was probably an affirmative. After John confirmed Molly would be completely fine and that yes, she would call if she needed to, he stepped outside to help load everything into Molly’s car. Right before she followed him, Molly turned and looked at Sherlock.

“Have a good night, Sherlock,” she said, her eyes sparkling for some strange reason. Sherlock managed a bemused nod to her and a wave to Rosie, and then they were gone.

Alone in the house, Sherlock took his seat at the table. He couldn’t stop staring at the candles. Did they mean what he thought they meant? The mere possibility made him feel jittery. He didn’t want to think about it too closely. He couldn’t.

“Sorry about that,” John said as he reentered the house. “This was the soonest she could pick Rosie up. Pretty perfect timing though, right?”

“What’s going on?” Sherlock blurted out. John froze next to his chair and looked at Sherlock. He hadn’t meant to ask that question, but he felt like he was going mad.

“We’re having dinner,” said John. His tone suggested he was restraining himself. Sherlock couldn’t fathom why.

John slowly sank into his seat and started to reach for his wineglass before stopping. “I wanted to thank you,” he said finally. “Remember? This is for everything you’ve –”

“But then why have Molly watch Rosie?” pressed Sherlock. “Why do all this?” He gestured to the table, hoping he wasn’t putting too much emphasis on the candles. “I don’t need that much thanks.”

Something in John’s expression both softened and steeled itself, somehow. John reached across the table and placed his hand on top of Sherlock’s.

“Because it’s what you deserve,” John said simply. “And I wanted – no, needed to do this. Just trust me.”

The words came without hesitation. “I always have.”

John smiled, and Sherlock realized he couldn’t wait for the rest of the night.

<><><> 

Dinner was, as expected, amazing. Sherlock’s favorite shepherd’s pie would always be his mother’s, but John did very well. For once, John didn’t need to goad him into having multiple servings.

Their conversation flowed as easily as the wine did. Sherlock was not drunk, but pleasantly warm and slightly tipsy. At some point during the meal, John had pressed his foot to Sherlock’s, and Sherlock made sure it stayed there. He had been rewarded with a shy grin that made his cheeks flare and his heart stutter. He felt as though they were hurtling towards something new, something he had only dreamt of before. It was possible the wine was to blame, but Sherlock prayed it wasn’t.

Once they realized they were doing more talking than eating, they retreated to the sitting room. Like so many nights before, they sat on the couch, only this time John sat closer to Sherlock than ever. He had turned his body so he was facing Sherlock, and his knee was touching Sherlock’s thigh. The lights were dim. John’s head was resting on his hand, his elbow propped against the back of the couch.

Sherlock’s heart was racing.  

“I’ve got one,” John said, continuing the game they had been playing for nearly an hour now. “Best holiday memory.”

Sherlock hummed and gently swirled his wine. “Either when Mycroft made himself sick on Christmas, or when I got to dress up as a pirate on Halloween.”

John laughed. Sherlock felt pleased with himself. “I’m surprised you didn’t dress up as a pirate every Halloween.”

Sherlock hid his sheepish grin behind his wineglass. “Mummy stopped me after the third.”

John’s smile widened. Looking at John for too long made Sherlock feel like he was going to jump out of his own skin, so he averted his eyes. “My turn then? Let me see…”

“Wait,” said John. He leaned forward and set his glass down on the coffee table. “Before I forget again, I have something for you.” Sherlock was disappointed when he stood up and left the room.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he said. “Dinner was suitable thanks enough.” _More_ than enough, really.

He had thought that the surprises were over, but he was wrong. John came back into the room with a small plate in his hands. On that plate was a cupcake, and on the cupcake was a single candle.

Like a birthday candle.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed even as his throat clogged up. John set the cupcake on the coffee table and sat back down next to him. Even though his eyes were fixed on the flickering flame on top of the dessert, Sherlock could see John flexing his fingers in his peripheral vision.

“I don’t –” Sherlock cleared his throat. “I don’t understand.”

John’s voice was soft and almost hesitant when he spoke. “After all these years, we’ve never once celebrated your birthday. And I know that this year was… less than pleasant. I just thought that maybe…” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncertain now. “I thought maybe we could celebrate tonight.”

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth. There was an excellent chance that the blurriness in his vision was due to tears, but he didn’t want to cry because he was so incredibly…

Happy.

He wanted to say thank you, to say that the last time he had been given a real birthday cake (or cupcake, in this case) was when he was a teenager, to say that this meant the world to him. All he could say, however, was, “John…”

John inched forward and took Sherlock’s left hand in his right.

“Make a wish,” John murmured. Sherlock didn’t even have to think about what he wanted.

 _I wish to have this forever,_ he thought, leaning close to the candle. _Him and Rosie, for the rest of my life._

When he was finished blowing out the candle, he sat back and let his side press fully against John’s. They were there. They were at the strange, mysterious moment they had been moving toward since John asked him to stay the day prior. They had to be. Sherlock was just waiting for the confirmation. He looked to John.

John licked his lips. “Sherlock…” he said, and Sherlock could hardly breathe. “I’ve been – well, I’ve been thinking about everything. You, me.” He squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Us. And I’ve realized something.”

It was like the world around them had slowed to a stop. Even out in the suburbs, where John lived, there was always some kind of noise that would remind them that other people existed. In that moment, however, it was like they were the only two people in the world. Just as Sherlock had always wanted it to be.

“Before I say it,” John said, his expression earnest, “I need you to know that I understand if your feelings have changed. I realize – I haven’t always been the kindest to you, and maybe it would have been better if you moved on or –”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted, his heart beating faster than it ever had. He gripped John’s hand tightly in his and, before he could stop himself, brushed John’s hair back with his free one. Sherlock had desperately wanted to run his fingers through John’s hair ever since he’d changed how he wore it. “I promise you, nothing has changed. Just tell me.”

John’s eyes shone, and he smiled, And Sherlock could finally say that the new emotion he had been noticing in John’s features was _love._

“Sherlock Holmes.” John said, “I –”

Sherlock’s phone rang.

A common misconception was that Sherlock hated everyone. That wasn’t true. While he had plenty of people he did hate, what he felt for most of humanity was simply apathy. If they didn’t irritate or offend him, he didn’t care.

However, there was absolutely no doubt in his mind that he completely loathed whoever was calling him at that very moment.

“Do you need to get that?” asked John, looking anxious and displeased. Sherlock fumbled with his phone, saw Mycroft was the one calling ( _of course_ Mycroft would call right now), and declined the call.

“Sod him,” Sherlock replied, breathless for no reason at all. “Go on. Please.”

John took a second to recover, then looked at him. “Sherlock, I –”

This time, it was John’s phone that was ringing.

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock groaned. John pulled out his phone and frowned.

“It’s your brother.”

“Don’t answer.”

John gave him an exasperated look. “But would he really make the effort to call me if it wasn’t important?”

“Yes, of course he would. He’s a prick like that.” Sherlock gazed at him pleadingly. “Ignore it.”

John hesitated, then declined the call. Not a moment later, his phone started ringing again. Fed up, Sherlock snatched the phone away and answered the call. “We’re _busy_!”

“I thought you might be,” Mycroft said smoothly, apparently not surprised that Sherlock had answered John’s phone. “But this is something that really cannot wait.”

If Sherlock could change his wish from earlier, he would, and the new one would be _I wish my brother would fall off an incredibly high cliff._

“What is it?” Sherlock asked through gritted teeth. John rubbed his thumb over the back of Sherlock’s hand, and he relaxed ever so slightly.

“Our sister. We’ve found her location, and…” Mycroft let out a reluctant sigh. “I need your assistance.”

On any other day, Sherlock would have been so pleased to hear his brother admit he needed him, but now he wanted to throttle him. “What do you need me for? You’re the British Government, you have people who can take care of this. Have them assist you.”

John was watching him closely. Sherlock was desperate for this phone call to be over. His knee bounced up and down.

“We made contact with her,” said Mycroft. “She will only speak to you.”

“I have nothing to say to her.”

“Sherlock, England’s security is at stake. She could destroy the country.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.”

“You’ve read her files,” Mycroft said. “You know I am right.” He paused. “This would keep John Watson and his daughter safe.”

Sherlock’s anger flared up. He was practically seeing red, and he had John’s hand in a viselike grip.  “Don’t you _dare_ use them as a way to get me to do your bidding. That’s low, even for you.”

“You know I’m right,” repeated Mycroft. When he spoke next, Sherlock was surprised to hear he almost sounded genuinely remorseful. “Believe me when I say that I would not ask you if this was not of the utmost importance.”

Sherlock’s shoulders sagged. His brother might have been smarter than him, but he still knew Mycroft better than anyone. Despite everything, he believed him then. And even if he hadn’t, the memory of John in a hospital bed was too fresh to ignore. He had to protect him.

“When do you need me?” he asked. John’s face slackened with disappointment.

“Now,” Mycroft said. “A car is outside.”

“How long?” he asked. _How long will I be gone?_

“Unclear.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and hung up. Anything else Mycroft needed to tell him could be said in person. The room was silent, only it wasn’t peaceful anymore.

“Whatever’s going on,” John said after what felt like an eternity, “don’t go.”

Sherlock turned to him and gathered both of John’s hands in his. “John…”

“Don’t go,” said John, his eyes fierce. “Not just because of tonight but because – Sherlock, I need you to be safe.”

“And I need _you_ to be safe,” said Sherlock. “That’s why I have to go.”

“Then I’m going with you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Rosie needs you.”

“She needs you just as much,” John insisted. “Christ, Sherlock, haven’t you done enough for us? Can’t you just take care of yourself for once?”

“Not until I know that you and Rosamund are safe.”

Anger flashed on John’s face. “You’re doing it again, you’re taking on everything by yourself. You told me you wouldn’t do that anymore! We’re supposed to be a team!”

This was certainly not how the night was supposed to go, but Sherlock wasn’t surprised it took a wrong turn. Nothing in his life had ever worked out the way it was supposed to, not when it came to the person he loved most.

“John,” he said, quietly and beseechingly. “I promise you I won’t abandon you. I’m going to come back. To do that, I need my mind to be clear, and it won’t be clear if I’m worrying about you or Rosamund. The best way to ensure I won’t worry about either of you is if you both stay here.”

John stared at him for a long moment. Sherlock watched as the fight went out of him and resignation crept in.

“You have to come back,” John whispered. “Do you understand? If you don’t, I’ll be forced to come after you.”

Sherlock smiled sadly. “Nothing can truly part us, John. Not after everything.”

John make a choked sound and closed his eyes. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s.

“Come back to me,” he said. “Come back home to me and our girl.”

Something not unlike electricity shot through Sherlock’s body, and for a second he didn’t think he could do it. He couldn’t leave this man behind.

But he had to. He had to protect him.

“I will,” he whispered. “I promise.”

John walked Sherlock to the door, their hands entwined. Just as Mycroft said, there was a black car waiting on the street. He wanted to smash it to pieces.

“You didn’t get to say it,” Sherlock said, lingering on the threshold. “Before. What you wanted to say.”

John looked startled for a second, then sad. “These weren’t the circumstances I had in mind. But –”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Not now. It can wait.”

John frowned. “But what if –”

Sherlock tapped John’s wrist. “I’m coming back, aren’t I?”

John inhaled shakily and nodded. He stepped forward and raised himself up on his toes. Sherlock nearly collapsed when John pressed the sweetest of kisses on his cheek.

“A promise is a promise,” John murmured. “You better keep it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I'm so sorry for the wait and I'm sorry about the way this chapter went and I prooooomissssee the next chapter won't take so long. Seriously. I really love you all thank you so so so so much for sticking with this. <3 <3


	14. Chapter 14

After Sherlock left, John sat on the couch and stared at the cupcake he’d rather hoped they would eat together. His shoulder hadn’t hurt for days, yet he felt a persistent ache there that matched the one in his heart.

They had been _so_ close _._ Everything had gone perfectly, Sherlock had looked so beautiful, and John had been prepared to reach his happily ever after. The memory of Sherlock’s bright, hopeful eyes was still at the forefront of his mind, and despite the unfortunate turn the night had taken, John never wanted to forget the way he had looked.

Of all the things that could have gone wrong (and John considered many possibilities for that), he certainly hadn’t anticipated Mycroft Holmes calling and whisking Sherlock away to deal with their blasted long-lost sister. The whole situation gave John a headache.

He didn’t know what he was feeling at that moment. It was a mixture of several things, all of which made him wish he could start the day over. This time, though, he would shatter their phones.

He was disappointed, yes, and more than a little heartbroken. By this point, he thought they would be past all the drama and hurt. His love for Sherlock, still so new, left him choked up. And under it all, there was still a sense of desperation that he had to finalize things between them _now_ so that they could finally get on with the rest of their lives.

But most of all, he was worried. Just the day before he had gotten rid of the sling, but a scar remained on his shoulder, a scar that would always remind him of what Eurus had done to him. Based on what little he knew, she was even more ruthless than Mycroft, and quite possibly smarter than both her brothers combined. Now Sherlock was off to face her, and there was a chance he wouldn’t return.

John’s stomach turned. He stood abruptly from the couch and picked up the cupcake. Walking into the kitchen made the ache in his body grow even more when he saw the remains of their dinner on the table. He had refrained from cleaning up in favor of skipping ahead to the part where he got to sit close to Sherlock on the couch.

Normally, he would save it all until the morning. It was quite late, and the wine had made him tired. However, he knew there was no chance he would be getting any sleep tonight. He packaged the cupcake up and placed it into the fridge before getting started on cleaning everything else. He let his mind wander away from the twisting, anxious thoughts regarding Sherlock and his family. It would do him no good to worry about them right now. Not when he was going to spend every waking moment until Sherlock returned doing just that.

The leftover shepherd’s pie got scooped into containers and tucked away in the fridge. Plates and wine glasses were put into the dishwasher, and the dish he had placed the pie in was left to soak in the sink. For more things to do, he blew out the candles and put them away. He swept the floor and straightened the chairs and wiped down the counters. Then he took the dishes out of the dishwasher and cleaned them all by hand.

By the time he was done, it was well past midnight. There was nothing left for him to do, so he retreated upstairs. He stopped on the way to his bedroom to check on Rosie before remembering that she was with Molly. He had a sudden desire to see his little girl but knew he would have to wait until tomorrow.

He had gotten used to sleeping alone again, finally, but he would be lying if he said he hadn’t been hoping that he would get a new sleeping partner that night. He had no expectations, no dreams of sex. He merely wanted to sleep beside Sherlock and relax in his warmth.

Instead, he ended up with an empty bed and a silent house. He knew he should sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Sherlock being shot or worse. He saw Sherlock being taken away from him forever.

There was a slight temptation creeping up on him. He still had some bottles of liquor tucked away in the cabinets downstairs. He could pour himself a glass or two. They might make sleeping easier, which really was all he wanted.

 _But,_ he thought, halfway to sitting up, _what if Mycroft calls saying Sherlock needs me? What if Sherlock comes back tonight?_

He sank back onto the mattress and stared up at the ceiling. The odds of either of those things happening were incredibly slim, but they would keep him sober. Because if there was even a shred of a chance that Sherlock would need him, he had to be ready. He’d let Sherlock down too many times.

The night passed slowly. John didn’t sleep at all.

<><><> 

John realized it was unlikely that Sherlock would return within twenty-four hours. He didn’t know the details of the mission, but he knew enough, and it would probably take a few days. The thought made his stomach turn unpleasantly. Every day Sherlock was away from him meant another day Sherlock could be hurt. He was acutely aware of exactly how long Sherlock had been gone, like he had a clock ticking away in his brain, keeping track of the time.

The morning after, John got out of bed early after hours of tossing and turning and went straight to Molly’s. She opened her door with a bright smile, clearly expecting one back. When she saw John’s tired eyes and sagging shoulders, her smile disappeared.

“What happened?” she asked immediately. “Did it not go well? Did Sherlock…”

He heard the unspoken second half of the question. _Reject you?_ He wondered if that would have been less painful. At least he would know Sherlock was safe.

“It’s complicated,” he said. “And I’ll explain. But first, I need to see my daughter.”

Molly nodded and ushered him into her flat. John had spent a good amount of time there in the wake of Mary’s death, and it usually would give him a feeling of comfort, with its yellow walls and plump sofas. Today, everything seemed grayer, like the brightness had been turned down.

Rosie was on her knees in the sitting room, looking like she was prepared to crawl after Molly. When she saw John, she squealed and darted toward him.

“Dada!” She tugged on the leg of his jeans. He bent down and scooped her up, feeling yet another rush of gratitude that he could finally do so again. He closed his eyes and pressed his nose to her hair.

“John?”

John opened his eyes and turned to see Molly in the doorway, a steaming mug in her hand. She held it up, silently asking if he wanted it. A result of him being over frequently was she knew exactly how he took his coffee.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it from her while keeping Rosie secure with one arm. Molly gestured for him to sit, which he did. He settled Rosie onto his lap, brushing another kiss over her head. He was feeling extra affectionate today.

Molly perched herself on the edge of a cozy armchair and waited. She would never ask him to start. It was always on his own time, whenever he could bring himself to speak, if he even could. It was one of the things he appreciated most about her. She was gentler than most therapists.

“Honestly, last night was perfect,” he said finally, recalling everything that came before the dreaded phone call. “I definitely caught him by surprise, which was what I wanted, and he seemed to love it. We talked about all sorts of things. It was… it was how it used to be. No awkwardness, no sadness.” He held Rosie closer to his chest. “He looked so happy. And beautiful. And he _definitely_ feels the same way.”

“Then, what happened?” Molly asked, confused.

John clenched and unclenched his jaw. “His bloody sister happened.”

Molly’s eyes widened, and John remembered that all she really knew about Eurus was that she shot him. “Is he –”

“He’s fine,” John said quickly. “At least, I think so. I hope so. I need him to be. He promised he’d – oh, God…” Panic rose up in him as he confronted the fact that he had absolutely no clue where Sherlock was or if he was okay. He didn’t know a damn thing.

 _He could be lying in a ditch somewhere and I’d have no idea,_ John thought. _I could’ve lost him again._

_He could be dead._

_And there’s nothing I can do._

“John?” Molly’s voice seemed to come from far away. He blinked a few times and realized that she was now crouched in front of him. She’d taken his mug and placed it on the coffee table, and she had a hand on Rosie’s back, as if she was prepared to take her away at a moment’s notice. His breaths came out in rapid pants. Panic attack.

“I’m fine,” he gasped. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and willed his breathing to go back to normal. Molly knew better than to point out she knew he wasn’t and simply nodded.

“Mycroft called him,” he said after another minute of calming himself. He relayed the rest of the night’s events to her, though he kept out the cheek kiss he’d given Sherlock before he left. That was something that only belonged to them.

“My God…” Molly whispered when he was finished. She looked horrified. “And you don’t know what he’ll be doing?”

John shook his head. “Unsurprisingly, Mycroft was not forthcoming with any information.” He could hardly keep the bitterness from his tone. “It sounded like Sherlock just needed to speak with her, but it’s probably going to be more complicated than that.” Everything about the Holmes family was more complicated than it should be. It frustrated him to no end.

Molly worried her lower lip with her teeth. John knew she was thinking the same things he was, that Sherlock was most likely in a great deal of danger and might even be dead. Wordlessly, he reached over and took her hand.

“He’ll be okay,” he said quietly. “He has to be. He made me a promise he would come back.”

Molly smiled sadly at that. “If he promised you, then he’ll do everything in his power to follow through. He loves you that much.”

That only made the lump in his throat grow. “You think so?” he whispered. Molly squeezed his hand.

“I know so.”

<><><> 

Days passed. John tried not to pay attention to the amount. Then it became a week, and he could hardly think past the constant panic that pervaded his thoughts. He hadn’t heard a word from Mycroft since that night, and he couldn’t tell if that was a good or bad sign. It certainly didn’t help his nerves. He felt like he was a second away from fracturing and falling apart.

Despite the fact that his sling was off and he no longer required any assistance, Molly was over nearly every day, with Lestrade stopping by whenever he was free. Normally, John would’ve been annoyed by their coddling, but he knew it was necessary. He was trying to be a good father to Rosie, but sometimes his anxiety overtook him, and he required a moment alone. If they were around, he could step away without feeling too much guilt over leaving his daughter.

It hit him on the eighth day since Sherlock left that he had fallen into the same routine he had created when Mary died. He would wake up after a night of barely sleeping (or sometimes not sleeping at all) and shuffle to Rosie’s room, where he would get her ready for the day. His energy would last until just past breakfast, and then he would realize he had no clue about what to do with himself that day. He had taken an indefinite leave from the surgery after Mary’s death and hadn’t been back before he was shot. It had been a relief to not have to go into work every day and interact with people, but it would have at least been something to do.

Faced with nothing, he would sit with Rosie and attempt to entertain her, but would often be unsuccessful because he couldn’t tell what she wanted. Molly or Lestrade would arrive around that point to watch Rosie while he escaped upstairs to work through his mounting panic attack. Once that was out of the way, he could function better. It was a painful cycle, one he wanted to break out of but had no clue as to how he could.

That day, Lestrade was sitting with Rosie while John headed upstairs. He started to turn towards his bedroom but paused at the top of the stairs. His eyes drifted toward the guest room – Sherlock’s room. No one had set foot in there since Sherlock left.

Without thinking, John’s feet led him to the doorway. Sherlock’s things were still strewn around the room, proof that he (sort of) lived there. The bed was unmade. His clothes hung in the closet, most likely in some kind of order that made sense only to Sherlock. There was a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, right beside a thick medical book he’d snagged from John’s shelf. One night, when Rosie had been particularly fussy, Sherlock had read it aloud to her until she fell asleep. John had been both amused and besotted, though he hadn’t really known about the besotted part.

Once he was in the doorway, John was powerless to stop himself from moving all the way into the room. He missed Sherlock so badly, the way someone might miss a limb. He felt the loss of him keenly, and he shuddered to think of what it would be like if Sherlock never came home. The pain would be unimaginable.

John sat on the bed. Sherlock’s pajamas had been tossed amongst the blankets. Biting his lip, John picked up his gray shirt and brought it to his chest. He lowered his head so his nose was pressed into the fabric and inhaled. That indefinable scent that was Sherlock’s still clung to it. His eyes watered.

“Dammit, Sherlock,” he whispered. “Why aren’t you home yet?”

He sat there for a few more minutes, until he could hear Rosie calling for him downstairs. With a heavy sigh, he set the shirt down and stood. Then he picked the shirt back up and folded it. He folded the pants too and placed them by the pillow. That way, Sherlock would find them easily and could change into them right away when he got home, as he often loved to do.

John just needed to have faith in him. Sherlock had always returned to him in the past, even when it seemed impossible. There was no reason he wouldn’t do the same now. John had to believe in that. In fact, he clung to it.

Standing in the doorway, he took a deep breath. Squared his shoulders. Reminded himself he was a solider.

And he returned downstairs to carry on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize this isn't much of a chapter, but the next one is way better and I'm already like 75% done it, so I'm hoping to have it up within the next week. 
> 
> <3 Thanks to everyone who has stuck with this!! I love you all and appreciate you guys!!


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